AA

Whiskyʼs swimming in the thick, hazy air. Voices are reverberating across the domestic fog as the faint light from the dingy lamp in the corner of the room plays along the ripples of the sound waves. All five of us are gathered here together in a meager portrayal of a commonerʼs corrupted communion. Across the table in the big bean-bag chair sheʼs scrolling aimlessly through her phone, pensively palming her forehead as she crushes liquor-infused ice cubes between her ivory teeth. To her left, heʼs spinning a football relentlessly atop his extended index finger, smirking at his meticulously refined party trick. To his left, heʼs melting into the burgundy sofa, emptying the glass of its fumes and inhaling smoky pleasures. Next thereʼs me, quietly recording all of this eveningʼs interactions or lack thereof, unexpectedly stumbling upon a simple moment that I would soon grow fond of for no particular motive or fancy. My nails are clicking against the chilled glass of my drink, and my fingertips are padding lovingly against the LCD of my phone. To my left heʼs scanning the room, observing the way the rest of us match his gaze and offer it to the others as well; an unspoken attempt to include each other in some type of non-verbal contract seemingly determined by the shape we sit in. “Workaholics" is blaring obnoxiously behind him, causing flickering illuminations to snake through his upright, midnight follicles and hugging the silhouettes of our insignificant gathering. Now is the time where we're supposed to identify the notion that these are the moments we live for. Some sort of memorial to the breakfast club is bound to bleed through our tongues at any second now. Instead, we discuss the last round of "Super Smash Bro's” and remind her that itʼs actually only 6:58 pm and we're not tired yet.