There’s always one girl you can’t catch a good glimpse of in the night. She’s standing in the corner of the party, talking with her hands on either side of her body, swooping them up and sideways to mimic laughter and the crescendo of her voice. Everyone notices the rise in pitch for a moment… Their eyes snap to attention in domino fashion as if she were made of hundreds of mirrors bouncing lights across the floor. They linger a little longer on the wrists in particular as they pop up and down in dance. And, with mild resignation, eyes work their way back to their own hands and conversations. Their pupils grow duller with each sip of butterscotch-colored bubbly until the light passes deep into skulls behind a cloudy film of drunkeness.
Somehow one girl keeps her wits about her, light-beaming, mirror-eyed, wrist-dancing, dullness-avoiding, choosing to live in infinite crescendo instead.