The night started as any night does. Throwing on my roommate's clothes 45 minutes late. With twisted martinis and sips of his wine and dancing and losing and looking and trying not to look. It ended at an older woman's house, with the flock of us following a stranger old enough to be my grandmother to her home in Tribeca. Alejandra wanted to see her closet, and I wanted to not be cold. The woman, West, could not find her keys and was embarrassed, so embarrassed. Perhaps it was all on purpose, to add to the dramatics —the delay — but once the cramped elevator opened, I swooned like I hadn't swooned in so long. Every inch of her wall was covered in art, and plants hung over the most exquisitely worn furniture, the loveliest of pianos. We gathered in the kitchen to talk about nothing at all and I sipped on my drink that I wanted to spit out. Alix glided around the whole place, as always, slipping in and out of the shadows of the loft's enclaves. Have you ever noticed the cobwebs in La Dolce Vita? Time seemed to have stopped and I felt infinitely young, but history trumped and terrified me to pieces. A handsome and tall reckless boy of twenty-two, running five hundred words per second, asked West for her age, asked West for her year of birth, asked the poor lady what she didn't want to be asked and filled her home to spellbind and shush for. I wanted to crumble for her, but she just wanted to take his photograph.
Nights like this always remind me of those cobwebs. When the fabulously bored finally wither away from their posts in their corners of the room and face the furtive peeks of the sun, they leave cobwebs in their tracks. Lingering drips of silky spider guts that drape over time like crumbling shards of crystal.