Bad Music, Good Sangria

Friday night the sky was perfect—black clouds against deep blue, a fat round moon hanging over the youth center in Irsingen where Bianca and Mandy were having their birthday. André, Kevin and I had been playing Super Smash Bros. Melee first (I won), then we drove out to Bad Worishofen to pick up Lisalein. The whole drive was Rammstein, Moskau especially—the kind of song that gets stuck in your head and you know you’ll hate it later but right now it’s perfect.

We got there a bit late. Cool people always show up last. Half the room was already wasted. Three euros at the door, a dark-haired woman stamped my hand with something vaguely stylish, and I went straight to the bar. I wasn’t about to let Ana win the race to get the drunkest. Turns out a couple other people had already beaten us to it.

The music was shit. I can’t remember what exactly they were playing, but I can still hear Backstreet Boys, which tells you everything. I sat on the couch with a stolen bottle of sangria, watching Cindy dance. It was a good night. Ana had hers too—maximum.