I never told you this—didn’t really think anything of it at the time, but hindsight is 20/20, they say. Later that evening, I was in the bathroom off your bedroom. I know your house like I know my own, and I’d rather use your personal toilet than the guest bathroom down the hall, where the line to get in had begun forming the moment I arrived at your party. In your bathroom, it was at least a little bit quiet—the music was reduced to a dull thud like a headache pounding against the walls, and the water felt cool when I splashed it on my face. I’d left the bathroom door open, but shut the one leading into the bedroom itself. The resulting quiet provided a small oasis of bliss. In the mirror above the sink, I saw the bed where you sleep at night and remembered the one we shared in Myrtle Bea
