Fifty separate conversations ricocheted off the oak-stained paneling and died in the burnt-orange shag. At one of the dozen round, collapsible tables covered with clipped-on, mysteriously stained mixed-fiber table cloths, this one baptized in draught beer and drops of seafood sauce, a couple of classmates sat with the quarterback and his spouse. He stared off into space, while she scowled down at her hands clutching an empty red cup.
A classmate walked up, smiling nervously, glasses, mouse-brown bangs and a black ponytail scrunchy, a nice summer dress.
“I had such a crush on you in high school!” she said.
“You want him, he’s yours,” said his wife.
He was on the bench and had been for 40 years.