Documentarian

And I'm here trying to impress some 22-year-old Snapchat celebrity, a Snap Celeb, and I want to ask if she thinks that indicative, that her fame will here for a moment and then gone forever, and then I remember we're all gone forever soon enough and at least she's somebody and I keep my mouth shut, opening periodically to put more beer in it. I've decided maybe that's the only opening I should be doing tonight.

This crowd is good, young, it makes me feel both young and old. Jeremy dragged me here, his girlfriend, Joanie, started a theatre company a year ago and happy birthday to them. She's discouraged but smiling, frustrated with someone there though she won't say who, thinking about leaving and what she's doing with her like and I want to grab her shoulders. I don't think that feeling ever goes away, but I guess I have a lot of time to find out.

Everyone ends up at Jeremy's place, or most of us, I've met at least two Kevins and three or four Lilas. It gets late soon, beer and wine and liquor flows, potato chips and pizza. The numbers don't dwindle, suddenly everyone is gone, Jeremy and Joanie have retired and I'm on the couch with the celebrity. If you asked me how things like this happen I'd reply, beats me. They just do.

In the morning she leaves, kisses me sweetly on the lips, and I thank god for guest bedrooms. After a breakfast of strong black coffee I do some sleuthing, which is my polite word for stalking. I see the night unfold in three to ten second increments. I replay the dances and the songs and the bits in my mind. I see the apartment around me, the mess being made, and I see her leave. Her walk out the door, on the street with friends. I see her say good night to the world. A master of public and private, and true documentarian, and I am amazed that all night long I never saw any of it happen.