The last time I saw a friend was March 2. In my apartment now the curtains are still mismatched. I’ve still got most of the wine bottles I bought in February with the careless assumption that they would not last a season of parties and dinners. Sometimes we would drink out of real wine glasses and other times out of jars or red cups, and there would always be music, always the teasing and little stories, occasionally the petty remark which could be forgiven or laughed at in our little pocket of the night. At some point, someone might end up making fried cheese sandwiches, even though we’d already eaten dinner. If someone got too drunk, we’d tend to them and the next day assure them they were not embarrassing; they were loved.
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