Every Single Time

Friday evening and the world is open: three options. The Melo with André and Lisa. A strange semi-graduation party with Ana. Or staying home to watch a documentary about the Apple/Microsoft rivalry—I’d already seen it in English, so that was mostly an alibi for doing nothing.

I’d already decided. The Melo. Obviously.

Then Ana called. She wasn’t doing well—really wasn’t, the kind of not-well that asks something of you—and she wanted me to come to the party instead. I caved. First mistake.

The venue was a tiny disco in some nearby spa town, the kind of place that takes itself completely seriously despite being roughly the size of my apartment. Aggressive bouncers, insufferable people—blow-dried guys and meticulously groomed women, all inflated with pride at having made it past the door into a room where they were permitted to dance to hip-hop remixes. I’ve been to pretentious places, but this particular species of self-satisfaction was something else.

The people we were actually supposed to meet had bailed before even paying cover. Every alarm bell I own started going off. I ignored all of them. Second mistake.

So I trailed after Ana like I always do, running that slow-burn jealousy I can’t seem to stop around her, watching her work the room, feeling erased in the specific way I only feel around her. Eventually I just wanted out. Said my goodbyes to her and to the guys who’d been waiting for me to clear out so they’d have a free run, then walked home alone—because everyone who might have driven me had already given up on the night and gone to bed.

At least I had my iPod. It didn’t help.

Next time I listen to the part of me that knows better. And I’m done going to parties with Ana. The suicidal thoughts are a reliable warning sign and I should probably start treating them as one.