Post-party time is the best time to make, lose, and jealously spy on friends. Don't lie to yourself, you've been one of these three.
Marco & Gordon's Thing - part 5
(Saturday)
Hearing no high-pitched screams or shouts, Marco opens his eyes to see a very empty girls' bathroom. It's disappointing for a number of reasons: it's not as clean as he thought it'd be (dirtier than the guys' bathroom, really); it smells like a roll of diapers and the dying whimper of industrial cleaner; and it has no Eleni. The last one irks him the most.
He rocks back off the door, clutching the heavy crate of samples to his stomach. The hefty container is his charge, reorganizing it is the price he's paying for wrecking it in the first place. Doesn't matter that they just finished performing the night of their lives, enthralling a crowd of dozens, Gordon still demands retribution.
Marco shakes his head. Where is that girl?
"Where is that girl?"
"Where is what girl?" Gordon sits next to the exit in a wooden chair. He creaks back and forth in the old thing to a steady rhythm, humming lines of random songs, caught halfway between wanting to immediately go home and crash and being okay with sitting there forever.
"Eleni."
"Umm, why do you need her?"
"She was supposed to keep me company on the way back. Plus, I was kinda looking forward to 'Holy highkicks, Marco! That was awesome!' or whatever she was gonna gush out."
The ginger looks genuinely disappointed and Gordon offers up the best sympathetic smile he can muster. "I don't know about 'awesome'..." he answers. "I'd say 'good,' maybe 'great.' But we need to mess around with the setlist and speed up some of the tracks because it started sagging right about the time we hit the—Oh… maybe Eleni got sick and left?"
Marco shakes his head. "Not comforting."
"Well... just go home," Gordon answers. He slides out of the chair and ambles back out to the empty room. "I gotta look Stag over top-to-bottom and then lock it up."
"Come with me, dude."
"Can't. Gotta lock up. And I'm going in the opposite direction."
"Well, at least skip the girls' bathroom. There's nothing to see in there. Except the death of all your frilliest, girliest fantasies…"
"Gotta check that, too. I told you: gotta look Stage over top-to-bottom and—"
"Lock up, yeah. Alright, see ya Monday?"
"Yeah."
Marco pushes through exit door and into the night.
~ when ~ the ~ levees ~ break ~
Alicia sits on a stump on the edge of the graveled parking lot, Chucks crossed beneath her thin, smooth thighs. Elbows on her knees, fists tucked into a ball beneath her chin, she watches Marco march across the gravel, crunching each step toward the well-lit street where he'll get home in no more than a few minutes.
The heat of the room has already dissipated from Alicia's skin and, in its place, the chilly night air swirls around her stiff limbs.
The previous hours run through her head. Events, people, looks, words - colorful, vivid memories contrasting starkly with the dark blue-black world around her.
Almost every partygoer has left, and yet Alicia feels herself rooted to the stump where she sits.
She ponders; she searches recent recollection; she racks her brain for a memory... for the last time she had a full conversation with another person who wanted to listen to her.
Thinking over the night... turns into thinking over the weekend... turns into thinking over the entire week... turns into the troubling notion that she can't remember when...
Marta and Summer stand together up ahead. They're nice, right? (Marta's nice, right?) Alicia's calves flex as she imagines walking over.
Just the thought makes her cringe. No. They enjoy each other's company. They're real friends. They talk openly and spend time listening and dancing.
Alicia unfurls her brown appendages and dangles them over the edge of the stump.
Yup, real friends.
~ when ~ the ~ levees ~ break ~
"That's the last of 'em, right?" Marta asks. "I don't know where he thinks Eleni is, but I'm pretty sure she left like… halfway through the party."
The night is dark and moonless, crisp and dry: perfect for walking. Nearly every partygoer has taken advantage of this fact, save at least two.
"Oh, yeah, I think that was it." Summer replies. "Let's… go."
"So, what'd you think?" Marta says.
"Good." Summer answers automatically, running through her mental list of positive and negative notes she made on the gig during the last few hours. It's thorough and certainly interesting, but her best friend sees through the mechanics. She's distracted, mentally focused on some other point.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"During the set, what happened?"
Summer shrugs. "It was good; highs, lows, good energy, lots of people dancing. Hektor seemed pleased with the turnout. He mentioned t-shirts, asked if I knew any dealers. I said I could work a good deal for him for a cut."
"Oh, that's great. Anything else happen during the set?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"The high point of the night? Socially, anything?"
"Nope."
It's a tad too quick of a reply, and they both know it. "You didn't build any bridges tonight?"
Summer refers to important conversations as "bridges." It's her way of expressing the frustration she has with small talk. She insists that all conversations have a purpose. Marta finds it annoying sometimes, but she has to admit that since she's implemented it in her own life, she's been way more productive.
"Well… maybe, I don't know…"
"Maybe?"
"No. I didn't."
"…Are we talking about business bridges here?"
"Sort of."
They're already a stone's throw away from the Stag, having started drifting away during their drifting conversation.
Marta presses again. "Do you wanna tell me what's wrong?"
No response.
The crunch beneath their shoes fills in pauses in the conversation, but doesn't make it any easier. They continue trudging through the nippy night air.
Marta glances over periodically, waiting to see if Summer will continue or elaborate or crack the door even a tiny sliver. After a while, Marta's eyes go soft, and she smiles a bit sadly at her silent best friend. With a bit of resignation and routine, she sighs and ventures forward. "Boys are so weird…"
Summer turns to her, a little confused.
"Summer, can you help me out? I kinda just need to spill out some stuff about guys and, well, life and stuff..."
Summer smiles a bit. "Yeah sure, I'm all-ears. You know you can tell me anything, Marta."
"Thanks, Sum," she answers. It's the ploy that never fails: Summer may be slow to open up, but she never denies a friend in need, and she always returns gestures of trust. Marta knows that sometimes she just needs the push.
"Come, spend the night at my house. We can talk all about it! And then... maybe we can plan my birthday party?"
"Yes, ma'am. That sounds like a perfect end to a… not-so-perfect night?"
"Ugh, tell me about it."
They loop arms and saunter into the night.
