I can’t tell if I’m too old for this party or if it’s too cool for me. The apartment is small, not dirty so much as ragged, and far too crowded. In the living room they’re blasting bass infused music that I can’t pretend to like from that close. I have been struck somewhat shy, so I stay in the kitchen, leaning in the doorway, watching the party. I don’t go too far from my vodka, as it remains my salvation, and I fill my glass more often than I should.

She comes up to me, the sort of brave extrovert who can’t let someone at a party have a bad time. She is trying to draw me out. “What’s that girly drink?”

I look at my saucer shaped glass. “It’s a vodka martini. It’s not that girly.”

She scoffs. It’s been a long time since someone has scoffed at my martinis, certain the glass makes it a weak beverage. I’m definitely too old for this party. But the girl challenged me, so I hand her the cup. “Try it.”

She takes a sip and her face implodes. She hands it back, and goes back to her Sour Puss and Seven. She poured it into another one of the stolen martini glasses, and she drinks it through a straw. We exchange names, and she asks me what I do.

I’m never my job at parties. I’m a writer, and more importantly, I’m a drunk writer. I start talking about what I write. I’m not really talking to her. I’m enjoying the sound of my own voice, at it goes on and on about what a genius I am. She seems impressed, nodding and asking the right questions to keep me going.

She is standing close now, head tilted up. She runs her straw over her lips as she listens. She’s enthralled by my monologue, but eventually I tire of it and stop. The music gets turned up. She sees the change in me and puts her hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

“I kind of hate people.” She looks at me in disbelief. “In large quantities. This place is way too crowded.” I glance at the door. “I’m going outside.

She follows me, a bit to my surprise. I’m drunk and I’m goofy. I walk around with my arms stretched as far as they go, along the little wall on some little old ladies little yard. She is a few steps behind, and she’s laughing.

We reach a park, and I scramble onto the playground equipment as quickly as possible. She hesitates, and I insist she join me. We climb as high as we can, nearly eight feet off the ground, and I start to stare at the stars. I’m lost in their glow.

“I’m cold,” she tells me. She wants my jacket, but I don’t want to be cold. Instead, I wrap an arm around her and she melts into me. I point out all three of the constellations I know and then kiss her.

I’m not sure when morning got here, but the alarm clock klaxons away. It’s a terrible sound and I hate it. She wanders out of my bed and gathers her clothes from the floor. “Bathroom?” she asks, and I point across the hall without really looking.

She’s gone, and if I really cared, I could probably figure out her name in the next couple of minutes. My head hurts and I’m embarrassed, because I doubt she is twenty yet. I’m afraid to see her drivers license, or what my roommates will say about her. I sleep till she gets back.

“You think it’s cold out?” she asks as she comes back in. “Can I borrow a sweater?”

I don’t want her to borrow a sweater. Borrow implies that I’ll be back in some awkward conversation with her, sober, and responsible for whatever happened in that blank spot last night. I force myself to somewhere near awake and head to my closet. I select a hoodie I can live without and hand it to her.

I’m pretty sure I was too old for that party, but I still hope it was just too cool for me.