Bearing no great love for the French, Bastille Day is just another excuse for me to drink socially, and so the friend of a friend invitation draws us out into the night and into the arms of a Bastille Day party.
Vive la Gin.
Red Hook blurs by in flashes of strange faces and free libations. Introductions tumble about me, and forgotten just as they are learned, the names drop through my fingers and onto the floor. Mike? Sarah? Becky?
We drink, chat and shake hands. Rinse and repeat.
In the blink of an eye, four hours have passed. The keg is bare and the kitchen has become an orphanage for half-consumed cocktails.
The girl and I retire to my flat and guzzle down some water. Hoping to end the night with a bang, my roommates continue on to an all-nighter in Greenpoint. There, on some random rooftop, they will enjoy front row seats for the 7:00am implosion of two hulking gas tanks.
The girl and I are far too tired to last that long.
I offered to sleep on the couch and let her have my bed. It would be wholly unacceptable to have her ride her bike home at four in the morning, but she rebuked my offer and stated that she would not kick me out of my own bed.
It seems that she already had another solution on her mind. Rather sheepishly, she openly theorized that my bed was big enough for two people.
I bear no great love for the French, but in the darkness before we fell asleep, there were several French moments between us.
