Sharona had already slammed one beer, being the hostess and birthday girl, she got first dibs; and the edge it had taken off facilitated another level of volume. She turned to Jacob, who, engaged in conversation with his friend, seemed unaware of her existence.

"Hey. HEY!"

He looked over at her.

"What's going on? My friends haven't got any drinks and the food is coming out so slowly."

Her face showed a mixed expression of annoyance at the situation and embarrassment for her recommending this place to her friends. She also conveyed a hope that her husband would help her while she could entertain her friends. But he sloughed her off like dead skin and turned back to his conversation. It was painfully obvious to many of the guests of the tension between the two. Some played it down and awkwardly laughed it off, others pretended to ignore it. Sharona suddenly shoved out her chair and went up to the waiter. In half English and half Japanese, she said, "We haven't received our beers yet! Doshite? Biru mada kimasen."

The waiter stiffened like a prey animal detecting its predator. He avoided eye contact with Sharona and nervously looked about the room for someone to come to his rescue or at least give him a survival clue. Sharona was spouting off somewhat comprehensible language, but to the waiter they were ungodly noises. To the young waiter, Sharona probably bore a lot of resemblance to Typhoeus, who had a hundred terrifying snake-heads with licking black tongues coming out of his shoulders, and the eyes flashed fire; and there were voices in all of the monstrous heads, emitting every kind of inexpressible sound. The waiter nearly dropped the plate of food in his right hand but managed to slide it onto the table. He side stepped her, lunged up the steps, and ran back to the kitchen, thereby wiggling out of Sharona's Medusian stare before being completely rendered helpless.

When Sharona stomped back to the table, her husband had mysteriously vanished. He had snuck away outside for a smoke and a chat with his friend. Sharona pretended not to notice but the queer quiver that appeared at the corner of her mouth gave her away. She slumped down and placed her hand on the one-third full, now warm, glass of beer, but didn't drink it. She just let her hand become moist from the condensation. Her shoulders hung off her like a bodysuit that was too big; she looked smaller than normal. Her eyebrows, usually secondary to her large, full- blooming, sky-blue eyes, now wrestled for dominance, and with each passing second, seemed to overtake more and more of her face. They steadily began to eclipse her eyes like the moon the sun, and soon engulfed her entire forehead with their domineering, chaotic twitching.

She picked up the glass and held it a few inches above the table. Her concentration was entirely focused on the glass, or so it seemed. Her eyebrow movement, upon closer inspection, appeared less chaotic, even rhythmic, like they were dancing to the syncopation of a waltz—the third movement of the Jupiter symphony, perhaps. The descending chromatic line jumped from eyebrow to eyebrow, as if possessed. Her hand, which tightly gripped the handle of the glass mug, moved up closer to her lips. The three staccato Ds, through sheer dominance, contorted Sharona's face and reanimated her eyes as the music held high on the unstable E, then stumbled down defiantly, as if resisting its fate. But this was futile. As the cadence approached, her eyes radiated stellar clarity and synchronicity. The instruments aligned themselves on the powerful G chord, and the universe was harmonious; and Sharona, overcome by hellish anger, her face grotesque and misshapen, hurled the glass towards the floor, smashing it to smithereens, instantly forcing the restaurant to a halt.

It was over an hour into the party and a few pizzas and french fries had been out to the table, not nearly enough food for four, let alone for fourteen. Everyone was more than annoyed but tried to maintain composure for the birthday girl's sake. The atmosphere was constricting in the stale, stuffy smoke-filled basement. The mess from Sharona's glass had been shoddily mopped up and the wet patch on the floor gave off an unbecoming sheen. Jacob scuffed his way back to the room and collapsed carelessly into his seat, conversing with his friend and ignoring Sharona and the rest. His face, being mostly made of cheeks, had a soft, airy look and feel, which mirrored his intelligence: loosey-goosey and vapid. He hadn't the slightest clue of what had occurred just twenty minutes ago, but there was little evidence that he would have noticed had he been there; or worse, he may have noticed but ignored it. Other than the smashed glass, Sharona had, for the most part, maintained her outbursts. But she now began, as the alcohol disinhibited her, to get snappy.

Billy and Mike and a few others were engaged in a drinking game. The first to go named an actor, the next had to name a movie the actor was in, the next had to name another actor from that movie, and so on, until one couldn't guess the actor or movie, and therefore had to drink. It was a game for cinephiles, such as Billy and Mike, but they enjoyed playing with anyone.

Sharona hollered across the table. "Your bullshit games suck. Why can't we play something for everyone? I hate that fucking game."

She took a deep breath and seemed to have more to say but shifted her eyes back to an empty glass and became angered again at the lack of service. Her cheeks now ruddy with blood, leapt up with the rest of her as she pushed her chair out noisily and stood, a little wobbly, determined to get beer. Jacob, gently startled to half-attention by the sudden intensity, attempted to mollify the situation. But Sharona didn't take his words well.

"I'm drunk? Calm down?"

She got louder with each utterance.

"It's my fucking party with my friends who aren't drinking because we can't get served properly and you won't do anything about it and don't care—" She cut herself off and rolled her eyes, bored by the conversation having had it many times before.

Somewhere between Jacob's cheeks more gibberish bubbled out, "What do you want me to do?" He asked. "Why don't I just go up and tell them to bring our food? Oh, great idea. That'll work. I'll hop up and down and make a scene. But that wouldn't be original. I'd just be copying you—Ugh! Sit down. Relax."

Other diners around in the restaurant felt the tense, sticky atmosphere that pervaded the room. Hushed comments and judgments were made. Sharona, rather than simply not caring less about what other people heard or thought, in fact, wanted them to hear, as she felt it would embarrass and shame Jacob more than her. She felt a vengeful pride bubbling inside and hoped—a hope that felt so ingrained, so primordial—that she could disgrace and humiliate him, as he was doing to her. Jacob, however, was already back chatting with his friend and had forgotten Sharona was standing there glaring at him—she might as well have been an apparition. His flippant attitude towards the entire situation and his callousness towards Sharona and her friends were simply too much for Sharona to overcome. Sharona felt a sharp pain run along the back side of her lower rib area. Sweat beads gathered around her eyebrows as her body temperature heated up. She swiped at her forehead to remove some of the sweat. Tears started to accumulate and left a shimmer in her eyes. She took a long, deep breath and closed her eyes for three or four seconds.

When she opened them, two waiters finally were bringing in food and drinks. They shone with the brilliance of Gabriel bringing good news from Heaven: six pitchers of beer, glittering like gold offerings, and the mountains of food on white plates like flags of surrender for peace.

Everyone, just a moment ago nearly in a state of panic, relaxed their taut faces and started to build up some chatter to liven things up. The waiters, one behind the other, feeling the sense of relief and joy filling the room, quickened their steps in excitement. The first waiter, carrying a heavy load and a big smile, jauntily jumped down the steps onto the wet floor and flung himself head over heels into the table, dousing Jacob and his friend with beer and whisky. The next waiter tried to stop but much too quickly jerked backwards, sending the food flying into another group behind him. The restaurant was a complete mess. Sharona laughed viciously and stormed out of the restaurant, leaving her friends, mouths and eyes open in disbelief, still hungry and sober after nearly two hours.