They weren't walking; they were power-sliding. Drinks were being refilled before the ice had even settled.
Leo finally kicked the tuna crate aside and lunged for the "Stop" button, but he paused. He looked at the room: the energy was electric, the fish was fresh, and everyone was accidentally having the fastest, best night of their lives.
An elderly couple in Booth 4, who usually split a miso soup in silence, were now engaged in a high-speed thumb war, their heads bobbing in perfect, twitchy unison to the manic bassline.
She started tapping her foot. Then her hand. Then she was drumming on the mahogany table with her chopsticks.
The neon sign for "Gill’s Galley" flickered in time with the frantic, high-pitched beat of a night that had gone completely off the rails.
