With a Little Help From My Friends

The sequins caught my half-drunk eye, pulling my head ninety degrees just in time to see her slip into the hallway. She'd beaten me to the punch in getting to the bathroom. It wasn't the first time I'd been bested by that woman; regrettably so, it wouldn't be the last. There was another lavatory in the apartment, surprisingly, but it had a door on two walls, neither of which locked. One could not be too careful in such matters, especially at a party with heavy-handed Irish folks pouring up the cocktails. I decided to wait for the safer option in the rear of the apartment. She couldn't be that long in there, or so I thought.

When she finally returned to the festive chaos high above Eighty-Second Street I placed my vodka tonic on the nearest coaster I could find and made my way for the coveted powder room. She must've reapplied her fragrance while in there. The scent hit me before I even turned the knob. It was winter, I remember, because I'm wearing my only sweater in the photos from that night. It was winter, but the small window in that restroom was open when I entered, a crisp Big Apple breeze running down the brick and in above the toilet. I was about to close it when I realized why it'd been opened. That faintly familiar skunk smell crept up my nostrils through the mask of fresh perfume like an out of place dealer at a grade school talent show. Was it really that necessary to indulge at this event? My mind's eye shot to my tumbler in the living room and I wished I hadn't left it so I could take a swig. Perhaps I was premature in judging her need to party to that extent. We all have our vices; some are simply more legal than others. I reached up, closed the window, and drained what my liver didn't soak up to escape.

There was a tinge of recognition when our eyes met over hors d'oeuvres. She saw the latent shame in my face, but her wrinkles caked with make-up lended no apology. Instead she gave a wink as she sipped her pinot grigio, whether or not she'd meant to, whether or not it really happened or my vodka was playing its game again. We carried on with pleasantries and feigned a pure existence. When the night came crashing down we went our separate ways: she, a waiting train; me, a stroll down Amsterdam. In a city where nothing's free we'd both paid our price and then some. I slept next to a lousy poem and woke to my sweater folded neatly on the back of the recliner. There's a reason why some things are saved for once or twice a year. Any more than that and we'd go bursting at the seams.