Marcel Winatschek

A Night in the Winter Garden

Betty’s eighteenth was a week ago, but certain nights stay with you. Julian was sprawling across everything, half on top of me for most of it. Patrick underneath, talking in his sleep like he was composing an entire novel for someone only he could hear. Ana to my right, having taken down a serious amount of whatever was flowing.

The party itself was fine. The music mostly worked. Drinks did what they were supposed to do. Half the people there were strangers—I didn’t know them going in and didn’t really connect with them either. Betty’s parents were genuinely nice about everything. They had liver sausage with potato salad, which was solid. I’m already thinking about next year, hoping they’ll have actual beds in the winter garden by then.