There were overlapping words and a living room (mine) chock full of friends. Glances from the doorway and a third glass of scotch made a room full of people feel hallow somehow, as though the gilded ceilings were extracting some piece of everyone's complexity and densely regurgitating it over my head.

There was some forced adultness I wanted to inspire in us and yet the stragglers; the ones meant to help tidy, turn the too quiet music up and pour me another glass of wine weren't those imaginary friends at all but ones whose trouble could finally be exposed, now that there was no one else around. The same few who didn't send notes of thanks this morning, who kicked and screamed that night, who didn't once look my way. Those were the prize five keeping my company, or me theirs.

I made some comment to some person at some time today about refining friends. Kissing each of their foreheads, inhaling one last breath of their polyester blend chests and tying a knot around the gift I'd made of them. Sending them to the world, someone else's world because the fiftieth chance is your last.