like champagne

Nicole took me to the bar last night for a few celebratory drinks after her gallery show. Those were her words--"celebratory drinks." She tells me the evening was a success--I wouldn't know. I just know the wine was decent and her art is always beautiful, and she looked exquisite as always, and that she didn't, apparently, sell anything. She tells me I look good in a suit.

I've always been drawn to the word 'celebratory.' It's so refined, so clinical. It conjures images of black tie affairs with champagne flutes and an air of sophistication. The lights are elaborate, the event is catered. Celebratory is a word for the picturesque, when everything, everyone, is arrayed to perfection. Even when the refinement is over, when the ties are loosened--it is impossible to look more perfectly casual than with tie loosened and collar unbuttoned.

We were caught in an unexpected rain storm on the way. She fumbled around in her bag for an umbrella, but it was too little, too late--we were drowned rats by the time we hit the bar. She ordered us both a shot and a beer and, on arriving at our table, slumped in her seat--briefly, anyway. Then she smiled and I said, "To you?" and she said, "Good enough," and we drank.

Maybe it was the continued stream of drinks, but I sensed something was wrong, though she was smiling and laughing at first. I spent the evening watching her, wondering if what I was seeing were cracks. It seemed like there was more of a pause before her smiles, less enthusiasm to her laughs.

On the way out, as she was leaning heavily on the door and waiting for me to help her to the bus stop, I asked her if she had a good night. She must have heard the suspicious tone in my voice because she paused for a minute. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah I did."

It started raining again while we waited for the bus, but by this point neither of us really cared if it ruined our best clothes.