#afa:start

“Well, well, well. What do we have...” The door stuck halfway. Quin hissed and tried to shove past a pile of books, Tolstoy and Renaissance Art slipping across the floor, as the Moroccan rug kicked up beneath the jam. “Shit!” In a weird, half hopping motion, Quin got the door free and, as it swung wildly open, he managed to lean against the frame, eyebrows raised, dark hair curling into his eyes in what he hoped was a rakish, disheveled manner. 

Time: 10pm

With: Open

Let them eat their pity, Imogene thought, leaving her prim white coat the door. Let them choke on it, even, until the use of the word reminded her of the last thing she had said to Joel, and the anger became too depressing to cling to.

Why was she even there? She couldn’t chalk it all up to fear of Hugo, though the constant need to manage him had certainly played a part. Perhaps there was an appeal to knowing that it would be a party, that everyone would be far too wasted to pester her with the usual condolences. It was with that thought that Imogene strolled right to the bar, looking into the eyes and flashing an icy grin to the familiar person already ordering their booze.

“Well - aren’t you going to buy the grieving sister a drink? Given the circumstances, I should be something of a guest of honor.”

Bodies writhed around them, twisting and twining into one another until the glitter bounced off limbs that seemed to merge together. The bass thumped against the walls, echoing in the cavity of their chest until it felt fit to stop their heart and restart it at a galloping speed. Sweat dripped down a line on their collar bone and they tipped back their head to take great gulps of air that didn’t taste of salt or the grief that threatened to pour out. One shot to calm their nerves had turned into six and Sloane was rapidly descending into something far more of a drunken haze than they originally intended. At least it kept the burning out of her eyes. 

Their dancing partner excused themselves to the bar with promises of more drinks and they only nodded numbly, pressed into the swarm of people that threatened to consume them. Desperate for a familiar face, as soon as they spotted one they quickly reached out and tried to grab onto their arm to steady themselves. “Hey- Hey! You. You there....where’s your drink? Why aren’t you drinking? Do you have one? You can have mine!” 

Contrary to popular opinion -- actually, was there even an opinion? Quin had a reputation for being a smart-ass -- he wasn’t an idiot, nor was he oblivious. When page six started filtering through stories of their long-lost set, like so many scattered somethings to the humid New York air, Quin kept his composure despite the flicker of unease. He’d even stayed calm when he’d glimpsed (stepping out of a cab, one long Louboutin leg, a pool of inky hair) Susanna Hadani uptown; or that Tuesday when Imogene Buchanon went zipping past (flash of white blonde hair, oversized sunglasses) in a chauffeured car; or George Holland (in a shirt crossed with a poncho, laughing at his pager) tripping on the sidewalk; or -- he exhaled reflexively -- Theo in the foyer of the Hilton, talking with some puffed-up execs, all deer-in-the-headlights and excruciatingly good looking for it. Most of them were always there -- New York had swallowed all of them, in one way or another -- but now they were sifting back into his life piece by piece, as they always did, and it wasn’t lost on him that just as summer was fading, they were emerging like woodlice, to squirm through the dim corridors of his consciousness until, in desperation, one of them did the usual ring around (Hey, long time, Rose, how about a drink or two at mine? Everyone will be there!), and they all flocked together, drawn by guilt and nostalgia, to get soused and make whiskey-soaked promises.

Even now, as he trailed through Bergdorf’s, listlessly picking through silk scarves, he half-imagined that familiar figure in his peripheral vision, all broad grins and too-sharp eyes, Hey, Rosie, where’s the blow at? Would Joel even have said something like that? The mythology was so convoluted, Quin thought Joel was just as apt to discuss Dostoevsky as he was book some strippers to play baccarat. Jesus. Quin picked up a Hermes and scowled at it. Even as he figured, Why the hell am I thinking about Joel?, he knew it had to do with the blinking light on his answering machine back in Brooklyn. A little light that promised a party, as faithfully executed as a fate line, renewed every August like clockwork.

Quin dropped the scarf and looked around, restless. Bergdorf’s heaved with people, most of them tourists, and fragmented conversations in French or Spanish drifted past him. A hopeful sales assistant was hovering nearby (did she think he was going to steal something?) but Quin ignored her. He knew how to shop for a fucking scarf.

Just as he abruptly turned around, he collided into someone. Quin swore, then blinked at the person in front of him.

“Oh!” Surprise gave way to suspicion. “Hi.” Quin narrowed his eyes and smiled slowly. “Whaddaya know. Are you following me?”

“Wait.” Quin held out a hand and closed his eyes tightly, thinking. When he opened them, Arthur looked as guileless and handsome as ever. This was going to be difficult. “You’re saying that literally no one organised something for Joel’s anniversary? Isn’t that kind of, like, your job?”