line the walls with production values out of Eighties softcore porn, soundtracks competing with arcade noises from another room. The guy at the bar has his hand on her arm and his hopes between her thighs. He leans in, says something cheek-to-cheek. She giggles coquettishly as he stands, gets his bearings, heads for the back of the room. By the time he’s down the hall toward the john she’s putting on her jacket and making for the front door. Watching this, I hope he’ll have the sense to shrug it off when he returns to find the flaw in his evening’s plans.