One night in Park Slope.

The doors open. You enter the room and see a bunch of hat-skinny-jeans-wearing kids around the table. It’s covered with red cups. Holy shit, you’re the oldest one here. You’re birthday is coming up. You’re about to hit the quarter. It seems ridiculous, but it’s not funny at the moment. You already have couple of margaritas and a subway ride behind you. What the hell. You brought a bottle of Haitian rum with you, and at this point you’re in desperate need of it. Show me the way to the next whiskey bar…oh don’t ask why oh don’t ask why…The brown color of a drink in the glass, one sip and another and just one more…makes it all better. The music is playing and the room is still -€“ still. Somebody hands you a cup and a ball. No thanks, I’m still working on it. You look up. He’s tall and handsome, he hands you a cup and a ball, you play. One cup, and the next one, and just one more…The room starts to spin just a little…You wander to the kitchen, the window is opened to the concrete-covered back yard. The girl sings while you inhale, hold, and let the smoke out of your lungs. Little cough. It’s been a while. If there is anything that hipsters know, is how to party.

But the next thing, you know is that you’re sitting on the stairs outside. The voice gets to you Sweetheart move your shoes, you don’t want to ruin these nice shoes. Your hair is being held.

The face of some man, telling you it will be ok. He’s short and black and smiling. He tells your friend the cab back to Manhattan, would be 120$. The angry voice, of the next door neighbor, growling she’d call the police. You don’t want to get your friends into trouble. You have to move.

You’re on the cold bathroom floor, breathing heavily and shaking. All you want is for the shaking to stop, but it wouldn’t. You know what’s going on, but your body refuses to work. The ceiling is circling round and round. Your knees are made of cotton wool, and you do know there is no possibility you’d make it to the subway. Another kind voice. I’m alright - you mumble. You lean on his shoulder. Long narrow corridor. The light coming out from the rooms. It’s getting emptier, Where did everyone go? Somebody’s bed. Garbage bin next to your head. He covers you with a blanket. He has white remains of powder under his nose. Blanket, bin, kiss on a forehead. He’d be coming back to check on you for the rest of the night. Sip of water-sleep-through up. Cup-bed-bin. Eventually you wake up. The bin is filled with something you’d rather didn’t belong to you. You hear the music and recognize it. Katie?- Gabbi’s voice - I’m fine. Goodnight. I’m sorry.

Morning. Gold earrings at the table. Yellow-purple stains of vomit (fucking chili) on the brown swade flats. The stairs outside. They seemed higher last night, when you were leaving the remains of your stomach on the pavement. Subway. Shower. You throw the shoes out. Bloody hell. You partied like an 18year old.