Shout

By the time Shout by the Isley Brothers comes on, no one is going to remember much. Between the Goodwill piano and the long wooden table, the floor is wet with champagne drunk too early, or perhaps not, given the general state of things at the moment. Already, there has been talk of naked tobogganing, this met with general enthusiasm and the removal of t-shirts. At the stove, someone is frying bacon. One hardly hears the sizzling fat over the booming bass and the airbrushed choruses. Shouts, bodies overwhelm the room. More space fills: the downstairs crowd comes up to join the others. The first among them bears unexpected news: the Viet Cong have lost to the South in civil war. This draws an easy laugh and an awkward hug that might have had less vim some hours ago.

But in another room a girl with red eyes and a thick-wrapped sweater sits cross-legged on the bed. The closed door does not dampen sound enough, and the saccharine throbbing outside only adds to her melancholy. Now was not the right time to talk; tonight was supposed to be different. Just good things. Good friends and good cheer and memories. She had determined to push it from her memory. Until tomorrow. Couldn’t help herself, though. Had to know. Five minutes ago she was happy, and now... It isn’t right.

“I’m sorry.”

Sitting in the chair, he looks at her looking at him. Her damp face betrays the same emotion he conceals.

(Set a scene in which something will happen---or in which something has happened (or, just as likely, both). But don't say what has happened or what will: allow that to be implied as part of the scene you evoke.)