By candlelight, I fell asleep alone until you came in. I never heard the door open, but I heard the dark and teasing spirits haunting the outdoors. I heard druks stumbling and shouting, fighting and losing shoes, falling over backwards, breaking expensive rented champagne glasses.
The disappearing act is popular with those who have no restraint; only because it’s sweet and gets you intoxicated pretty fast.
Three am and there’s people still partying, pretty hardcore. We’ve been running soup-encrusted bowls through dishwashers, closing off potentially explosive tubes, tuning down potentially explosvie situations. A blue tub underneath the main sink in the apparently capable kitchen is filled up with foodish grey water. Pickled beans and beets, squash and roasted onion bits.
A single inadvertant drink gets the line going. Someone insists I had better get a jar for money. The drunker these drunkies get, the more money fills up the glass. Twenties and tens and fives, mostly. Someone needs change to leave a single dollor. Here — you need another cocktail. Prosecco and St/ Germaine is the bridal bouquet, the professional who — at the end of this night won’t help a stictch — tells me, almost too tipsy to drink anymore. Here, quarter of a glass. Go entertain yourself.
Sticky alcohol and chicken slime line my arms and hands and Amelia Eirhart’s aviator’s shirt. The goggles go from head to neck to off. That shirt is on the counter and the neckerchief is smothering in the upstairs heat where the dishwater, miles away, runs glasses and plates easily.
Keys locked in the backseat of the only car. Trapped, but not. Out on the sidewalk steps with rows of pumpkins filled with soup. Jokes about punting, smashing, dropping them by people’s doorsteps as soup-surprise jack-o-lanterns. It might attract some hungry spirits.
Perhaps, if you sacrifice some food, you won’t get eaten alive.
Welcome to the death half of the year. The frost is coming to freeze you over. Are you prepared? Have you planned? Oh wait — did you not know?