a night of dancing. of smiling. of sneaking glances. of learning where people stand.
mixing drinks in the kitchen and meeting new people in the candle lit apartment with music playing loud and everyone looking so wonderful- so New York, so enjoying of life.
Tristan's martini parties are always fun. we've become excellent co-hosts.
we sit sipping strong drinks under low light with expressive faces leaning on one arm next to the glass coffee table covered in hors d'oevres. beneath the music, conversations flow freely in english, french, and spanish. a room of liberal attitudes and pretend snobbery; a room alive with postmodernism and a wildly classic sense of aestheticism. laughter overpowers, and we dance by a wall of windows that overlooks the quiet Sackville streets below- worlds so distantly far apart, so distinctly out of synch.

on to the tantramarsh club and rounds keep coming forth: trips to the bar act as punctuation to the otherwise seamless dancefloor transitions from song to song to song. we all crowd in the corner, taking it as our territory and mixing amongst ourselves, creating and reshaping rapports between us by our motions and by huddled conversations over shared water.

walking home we were six and none could justify and end to a thus far wonderful night. shuffled in to Joey's for greasy food and tired laughter as the lights shut down around us. ran home in the snow, and ever pleased at the decision to wear flats.