Partying Alone

I go to parties like anyone my age does. Parties look, apparently, similar up here in copenhagen as they did back in lisbon, out in boston, far away in brazil. I said apparently.

Lars’ housewarming party is moving at the pace of the girl he is about to introduce me. She is the DJ, the best dancer, and the air is filled with her charm. Her clothes are tight, a black hat that she doesn’t take out which contrasts with her long blond hair. Impossible not to notice. Everyone has noticed her, and here is my chance, hey Sophia… tak for muzik, tak for danse, my eyes desiring imagining the end of the night lying in the couch asking Lars – may we crash here? – and the moment of courage and pride kissing her softly in the lips, taking her hat and putting it in my head. She says something joyful small-talk and keeps looking at me and at my flowing skirt.

We play a little. Lars hugs me from behind – er hun ikke sød? Det er hun. She also has a story like yours, – he tells – she hit a policeman that was trying to grab her breasts, she was handcuffed, hit him with the head, blood coming out of his nose. And shame. Godt gjørt – I say to her. Maybe my fantasy was going too far – perhaps we could do it slowly. Phone number. Picnic. A film in my bed, on the computer. my head on her tight. Her caress.

Lars tells me she’s not only sweet, her twins are too. Her husband too.
Oh! Fucking independent women. They should stay home with their perfect looking families and not disrupt our parties or our nights or our hopes.