At the summer party there was a curious jumble of food arrayed on a table in the dark garage: pulled pork and barbecued chicken in foil trays, tubs of obscurely branded deli salads, hot dog buns with nothing to stick inside.
People sat listlessly in chairs arrayed out on the tarmac, under the stinging sun. Then it clouded over and a spitting drizzle fell. Then the sun came back, hotter than before.
Someone played Nirvana on a guitar.
A fat old man grilled what remained of the meat and flipped it onto a platter, forming a jumbled heap of charred sausages, hot dogs and burgers. Then he turned off the fire and walked away.