Once, you thought you had all the time in the world. Maybe you did. But now the world is spending that time like a soldier on leave, throwing mountains of confetti for a party already nearing its end. The handful of guests remaining speak so softly, as if in code, imperceptibly moving away while standing still. The music, too, grows fainter, reduced to a residual hum, a melody remembered from childhood rising and falling again. You find yourself picking up the half-drained glasses, overflowing ashtrays, stacking mismatched dishes in the kitchen sink. It looks to have been quite the event, one that won't come around again. You only wish you could remember more. Who was that bird-like woman speaking your name so intimately, embracing you with abandon? What of that man leaning in too closely, talking politics all night, demanding your stance on the latest referendum? Next time you will take mental notes, leave a guestbook at the door for all to sign as they leave, hopefully still laughing, bright strands of paper clinging to their heels.
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