Marcel Winatschek

Betty’s Eighteenth

Betty turned eighteen that night, and we lit fireworks in the dark with everyone gathered around. I remember the way the light would flash across faces for a split second before the sky went black again—that moment just before the sound reached you. Everyone was loud and happy in that uncomplicated way you only get at a certain age, when getting older still feels like something happening to someone else. We stayed out until the bottle was empty and the last sparks faded into the garden.