Afterparty ~ fiction by Chelsea Bouchard

Follow Ros to the party house, where colored lights churn from the windows into the night sky like a collapsing star. Let her grab your hand, weave you through swaying crowds into a room containing every other person on earth, living, dead, or otherwise. Dance with ghosts. Watch Ros dance. While you dance, close your eyes. Do not think about your movements; the task itself is too somatic. Do not lose whatever it is that makes Ros stare back.

When the heat of the room becomes overwhelming, retreat to the bathroom. White-knuckle the pedestal sink as you stare in the mirror. Steady yourself. Laugh at your face, your smudged eyeliner, your slow blink, the way you do when you’re drunk. Adjust your bra strap. Imagine your life next year: corporate, clean, promising, quiet, successful. If this makes you sad, find Ros. Do another shot.

When Ros asks if you want a cigarette, say yes. Hold it between your lips, and as she lights it, take a shallow breath, an inhalation so inconsequential it’s impossible to become addicted. Exhale through your nostrils like a dragon. Make her laugh. Take her outside because it’s rude to smoke cigarettes indoors. Ignore the fleeting taste of nicotine, the impending blue hour, and the likely possibility that this is the last time you will get lost on your way home together.

When you return to your apartment, help Ros find her own bed. Listen to her talk about Los Angeles: “I can’t wait for it to be sunny all the time. I can’t wait to live in a place where I can go swimming on Christmas day. Imagine how productive I’ll be without seasonal depression. I’ll hustle. I’ll go to castings. I’ll get really good at home wrecking. Blow my way to the top. Sign with an agency. Quit my job. Walk in fashion week. Is it crazy to say that I’m looking forward to fire season? Whenever I see a Silicon Valley billionaire’s mansion in flames, I get all warm and fuzzy. Fuck the rich, baby.”

Listen, and do not lecture her about climate change or the concept of homeowner’s insurance or the metaphorical differences between and fucking and eating the wealthy. Nod, and say yes when she asks you to make her some ramen. In the kitchen, sit on the counter and hug your knees while you wait for the water to boil. Let the yellow light of the range hood wash over your skin and warm you. Break the ramen brick in half. Add half of the chicken flavor packet. Do not move again until steam beads on your peach-fuzzed thighs and you no longer feel like crying.

When you return to Ros’s bedroom and find her asleep, leave the bowl of noodles on her bedside table. Without waking her, climb into her bed and slide your body into the space next to hers. Watch the sun gouache the room in shades of orange. Close your eyes. Imagine your life in the next few hours: rallying, mimosas, white dresses under black robes, pomp and circumstance. Look at Ros, her sleeping eyelids glittering iridescence in the dustlight, and realize this is the afterparty. If this makes you sad, let it.

Chelsea Bouchard is a writer and evening shift nurse from New Hampshire, where she lives with her husband and two tuxedo cats. Her writing has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared or is forthcoming in Beaver Magazine, JAKE, Many Nice Donkeys, BULLSHIT, and HAD. You can find her on socials @chelfmarie.