undergrowth

It was supposed to be a party, but there were 7 of us sitting there in the dimly-lit living room, on couches and chairs, around a small table - in front of an electric fireplace with fake plastic glowing logs, and nobody had anything to say. Tom Waits' moaning in the background added an element of melancholy. It was Vincent's party and his house, so he kept making attempts at conversation, directing questions around the room as to how Rosana's job is, when Jeff is going home; the usual bull. Moments of uncomfortable silence seemed good times to look involved by taking another sip of wine. Jessica was annoyed with the boredom and artificiality and confided in me that she wanted to go to the pub. I was optimistic, though, and we stuck around. Slowly, another and another arrived, and each person brought warmth, and each sip of the drink was fuller and had nothing to do with an impulse of discomfort. The music changed from folk to rock to funk until a guitar showed up, and we made our own music. There were over 20 of us now, and representatives from half as many countries, and the room was vibrant and buzzing. The night took off, and didn't settle down for some of us until 7am, after a club, a climb up the cathedral, and a bowl of pasta topped with a bit of every sauce from the fridge and a piece of bacon.