The Anatomy of a Party

A party is a body covered in freckles the shape of wine glasses, circles marking tables without coasters – its arms are askew like rugs kicked upon entry by crazed teens, its eyes half closed shutters, averting the gaze of a neighbour, its hair the curling wires of a telephone cord, poised in said neighbour’s twitchy hand. A party begins with youthful skin, multicoloured shades of lights flashing, vibrant, soon becoming a wrinkled reflection, finger food left out too long, stale and dehydrated - its veins pump with adrenaline the odour of a sudden first kiss, its toes made up of faded confetti, trodden into carpets from the night before; its mouth a door, lips a frame, teeth the white froth of innocence atop beers yet to be spilt, slurred. A party is a heart that beats in time to its guests: first, the nervous flickers of a host, to the leaping buzz of an arrival, then the frantic thumping of a midnight everlasting until it slows, calms, to the gentle hum of a lover’s caress.