I’m drinking on this rooftop patio; bitters and absolut and citrus and vodka and ginger, something sweet to mask the alcohol, on the rocks, maybe in a champagne glass.
Tessa points out the ashtray on the table and we each light up our Reds, sending smoke signals between shots, up to the sky in the wake of the sun’s departure.
There’s a man named Martin drinking martinis, there’s a marine, an ecologist, and a man who switched to American Spirits because he hates the taste of marlboros.
I’m listening to a woman talk about blowing bubbles and playing with “Riley” at the park, and I’m wondering if it’s a dog or a kid she’s referring to.
“What kind of dog is she?” I try.
The woman’s attention is caught elsewhere.
“Wrong one…” Tessa warns.
We fight to hold back laughter.
Tessa and I lean over the balcony and pull away from all the other conversations. Over the railing, the streets are filled with lights.
We talk about our hazy nights and crystal-clear connections, and all the ways we’ve fucked up our brains and veins since last we talked.
All the heavy thinking and heavy drinking, all the uppers, downers, pills and powders of the past four years, and what in hell are we gonna do with ourselves now?