Saturday, February 14, 2015
There’s something so grossly sophisticated about drinking $12 red wine straight from the bottle. Cath and Lauren took theirs in dorm room Tupperware, but me, I took the kiss straight from the bottleneck lips. Tastes like Saturdays. At least Saturday nights. Saturday mornings taste more like coffee, in large porcelain cups that require two hands, or 10 AM (if that were a taste.) I looked at myself a lot in the mirror. I ate potatoes-au-gratin over Cath’s bare shoulders.
Sometimes I prefer this mellowness. If Saturday nights and fraternity parties are bright reds or deep blues, this night was a nipple pink. I think it’s strange that one day everyone at these parties will have gray hair. Or at least be middle-aged adults who are really upset. Cath always jokes about killing herself at 45. I think she’s joking.
We got to the fraternity around 10:45ish. Our heels clicking. I like that sound. It’s the sound teachers only used to make. My mom in important places. Now we make it drunk walking down the streets in packs of threes and sevens. The boys let us in at the door because they recognize us, one gives me a one-armed hug. Did people hug me at parties in high school?
We take shots and we dance, we dance and we take shots, we ask for beers because you don’t dance with shots. Why does vodka taste like shit? Someone comes around with a wine bag and I take it. I shared saliva with everyone there. Everything is hazy but in that good kind of way, like life with your peripheries sliced off. It scares me that this is when I am happiest – but of course that’s a fleeting thought, one my intoxicated hippocampus rejects.
I saw him again. We kiss a little on the staircase and I hear someone giggle behind us. Happy Valentines Day he says, to them.
Sarah Adler is a staff writer for The Weekender. Contact her at [email protected]