Afterparty
I just wanted to tell you that the kind stranger who held my hair back at the end of the night got quite a mouthful about how lovely I think you are. And I wanted to say that I was already past plastered when you put your hand on my arm and asked if I’d take another shot with you, but there isn’t a world in which I would have answered no. Because I still think that if I drum up a little more courage, you’ll end up at my next birthday, where we’ll be standing in my kitchen, surrounded by all our friends. And when they start singing, I’ll tune out the noise, and for a moment all that will exist will be candles and buttercream and you with a hand on my waist, ready to kiss me in front of everyone when the music stops. I’m not ready to admit that it’s just a fever dream. This morning, my entire being is aching with the aftereffects of trying too hard to hold your attention, but I’m still soaked in the thought of you, yesterday, beaming at me, momentarily. A small, beautiful thing that glows soft pink in my memory; a grin that creeps itself over my tired face.
Caroline Warner (she/her) is a writer and editor based in Boston. She holds a B.A. in writing from the University of Vermont. You can find her on Twitter @carolinexwarner