As opposed to what?

I didn’t want to go to the birthday party, but I had been cooped up from the snow all day and wanted  a drink. We ordered in tacos and drank cold beers. We left the limes at the bottom of the bottles and the sharp knife in the sink and headed out into the snow to drink more. The party was pink themed. The party had its own step-and-repeat that I avoided. He stood in front of it and pretended to cry for the cameras. We drank free vodka cocktails and ran into a friend of mine who did the PR for the party. She was miserable—she hated the birthday girl, and desperate for human interaction (“as opposed to what?” he asked, and we laughed). She got us champagne, which we sipped until our heads spun and the music beat under our feet like the ensuing stampede of stilettos. We managed to get free bottle service, a profane practice most club-goers spend upwards of hundreds of dollars in order to sit on a banquet and pour their own drinks. He made me a screwdriver and spilled most of it on my lap. We laughed and danced and took photographs, our shirts tugging down past our decolletage and our drinks sloshing over the rims of the glasses. The room spun around me like a crystal ball. The legs were too long, all too long, and the heels were too high. No one was wearing enough clothes to deal with the blizzard. I wrapped myself in my dark wool coat and scarf and fell into his arms, into the cold and broken night.


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