Borrowed Ouzo, Stolen Night

Sonja dragged me to a birthday party in a kindergarten—an actual kindergarten, mysterious in the way these things are when you arrive somewhere and can’t quite explain why children’s furniture is everywhere. We stocked up early: gin tonics, flatbread, and a chocolate nut cake that wobbled in a way that felt slightly alive. The music kept shifting between indie-alternative, which is my habitat, and house and electro, which is Sonja’s corner. We didn’t fight about it. The guest list was long enough that nobody had to fight about anything.

At some point we decided to audition as bartenders, mixing drinks with the seriousness of two people who have vaguely discussed catering as a side career and haven’t fully let go of the fantasy. Then we acquired a bottle of Ouzo—borrowed, in the loosest possible sense of the word—and stumbled over to my favorite nachos place. We ate ourselves sober alongside what I can only describe as a very drunk captain’s club and a contingent I’m calling the Spanish mafia, who were loud but not unfriendly. By the time we’d worked through enough nachos to neutralize the alcohol situation, it was time to walk home through the kind of cold rain that feels personal. There was dancing involved. Possibly that helped.

The night’s only casualty was Sonja’s Lacoste shirt, which took a direct hit from what I’m calling a terrorist chocolate stain. Expensive shirt. Impressive stain. She was furious, which made it funnier, which made her more furious, which made it one of the better nights in recent memory.