The cool girls agree there needs to be a fund for better ambiance. Their latest collective dream is Christmas lights, colored only, squished into messy rats nests, pressed flat across walls. No inch spared. The cool girls slouch into their drinks and talk about deep things without meaning to, huddle with their batons. They have bundles of daughters and mothers and ghosts joining their chemistry, tucked under collars and stored halfway up the slim sleeves of essential white shirts. They triple the warmth of the room, humor the suave operators, enjoy some of it. It’s part of their job.