Chapter 5: Red Wine and 90s Nostalgia

The soft haze of multicolored DJ lights pushed back the edges of enveloping darkness in the Boston pub's upstairs banquet hall, joyfully decorated tonight with white string lights and vases of purple orchids atop navy table linens. That afternoon, Jane had been her brother's "Best Sister" in his simple wedding ceremony at a gazebo in a public park. She still wore her form-fitting black pants and ruffled purple blouse, but the tuxedo jacket and top-hat fascinator had been cast off somewhere between the reception toasts and her second shot of tequila. Her best friend was her "date" for the evening and wore a long, coffee-colored evening gown with ballet flats and an up-do. The hour was late, and only a handful of Trent and Tom's closest friends remained.

At the moment, Daria and Jane were the only ones on the dance floor—a laughing Jane had dragged her reluctant friend from her seat the second she realized Charles Ruttheimer (weekend DJ and weekday computer programmer) was playing The Doors' "L.A. Woman." Now Jane had one hand on Daria's shoulder and the other clutching her Long Island Tea while she enthusiastically bobbed her head and occasionally hip-bumped her amused companion.

Daria sipped her pinot noir as she smiled and returned her friend's less-than-gentle jostles. She found herself watching Jane dance, so joyful and uninhibited. Sometimes Daria envied the artist's utter lack of composure. She took another sip of her wine just as Jane spun around to face her, tipsy and giggling, with fully half her black hair having fallen out of its tiny ponytail by this point.

Those poor chumps at art school didn't stand a chance, Lane. They were lucky just to hover by your light and join you for a few sad, cerebral foreign films before you moved on. Daria gave Jane a particularly enthusiastic hip bump, sloshing her wine in the process and letting loose a short burst of laughter. God, I was relieved every time you kicked some wannabe Warhol to the curb with your gray butt-kicking boots. Maybe too relieved…but I've analyzed and dissected all that before, innumerable times. My feelings were always firmly rooted in friendship. Daria raised her glass and found herself taking more of a gulp than a sip of pinot noir. And that time I was watching you paint in your studio apartment—so intense, with indigo smudged on your black tank-top and your hair falling in your eyes—it was definitely the overwhelming odor of paint thinner making me feel…odd. Another glug of wine. True, there's no paint thinner on the dance floor tonight that could be contributing to this feeling. So…magnetic. And you smell so damn good. The thoroughly-terrified journalist drained her glass. Oh, crap.

A few moments later, the song changed. Jane suddenly stopped dancing and pointed at the enormous speakers nearby, her eyes wide. "Holy shit, I love this song!"

Daria scrambled for a response. " 'Fade into You' by Mazzy Star. I always think of that 90s television commercial where the guy muses about his wife's granny panties." Jane cackled and then quickly snatched Daria's wine glass from her hand and set it on a nearby high-top table. Daria still had a shocked expression on her face when her exuberant friend wheeled to face her, slid her hands onto her shoulders, and exclaimed, "Let's do this thing junior-high dance style!"

At a loss for words, Daria gingerly placed her hands just above her tuxedoed companion's waist and joined her in the awkward waddle known to pre-adolescents everywhere. The baffled brunette looked up into Jane's face, but she was lost in the warm sea of haunting mid-nineties distortion. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. What do I do now? I mean, besides barely holding my friend's waist like it's a priceless relic of the Ming Dynasty while my armpits accumulate terror sweat.

Swaying with her eyes closed, Jane smiled and pulled Daria closer, one palm between the writer's bare shoulder-blades and the other resting on her upper arm. Unsure what to do next, Daria closed her eyes and let the moment take her—she slipped her hands around Jane's lower back and interlaced her fingers against the purple satin. Good God, what am I doing? Thanks a lot, red wine and 90s nostalgia.

The next few minutes passed in a warm and bewildering haze. The old friends clung to each other as the last notes faded away. Suddenly, the all-too-familiar growl of Lawndale's biggest pervert assaulted their eardrums via the high-tech speaker system. "Well, my friends," Charles purred, "I see Jane and Daria have decided to join in the Bacchanalian orgy of sensual delights. Might I add that it's about time?"

Jane's eyes popped open as she quickly stepped away from her best friend and shot a dirty look in the direction of the DJ booth. More loudly than she realized (thanks to the open bar), she fired back at Upchuck. "Not a chance, Ruttheimer. The Lane family already has enough surprise gays!"

Daria reddened as the few stragglers remaining at the dance began to laugh. Jane didn't hear her quietly excuse herself to the restroom, and the only one who saw her face as she rushed by, distraught, was Trent.

The thoroughly confused and mortified young woman was beyond thankful to find the bathroom unoccupied. She locked the door and leaned against the wall of cool tile, shakily removing her glasses and resting her face in her hands as the tears began to fall. Why would I think Jane might possibly feel what I'm feeling? That is, if I even know what it is I'm feeling.

Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door. "Daria?" It was Jane. "Is everything okay?"

Daria took a deep, shuddering breath and held it for a moment before responding as nonchalantly as possible. "It's that damned open bar. Our ex-boyfriend and his new husband keep the booze flowing like it's a Pride Week drag brunch."

Silence on the other side of the door. Daria could perfectly picture her best friend's knitted brow—there was no way she was buying this. After a few moments, Jane responded with a very suspicious, "Okay, Daria. Find me when you come out?"

Daria cringed at the word choice and replied, "Aye-aye, Captain." Why the hell did I say that?

When she emerged five minutes later, Daria did find Jane. She spotted her across the dance floor, laughing with Upchuck, but found pondering their possible topics of conversation to be a completely horrifying exercise. Overwhelmed, Daria quickly made her way to the table where they'd had dinner and snatched her purse and shawl. She slipped out the doors of the banquet hall unnoticed, dashed down the steps to the pub below, and texted Jane that she'd had to leave. She was just getting into her taxi when the inevitable response came, asking if everything was alright. Daria responded in the affirmative and then leaned back into the cab's headrest, breathing a sigh of relief.

When Jane texted her a week later asking to meet for coffee, Daria truly intended to reply. She spent several hours debating her response, but eventually gave up on trying to find the right one. She told herself she would text Jane back the next day—however, work proved to be crazy and she ended up writing a story until late in the evening. Daria continued finding convenient excuses to avoid discussing the issue with her best friend until the very day of Timothy O'Neill's funeral.