We’ve eaten. Done dessert. Exploded in the champagne until everything rose foamy, white, with an empty pop. Happy Birthday. The soft rock titters in the afterglow and that music—if you could call it music—drenches our clothes. Treading water long after the others have left, we slosh through the bar for something to float. We’re not tired. Not going home. Let’s Abandon Ship, Everyone Row.

 

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