The Tale of the Never-ending Party
Feeling light as a feather, her lungs crisp and eyes bright, Archer and her steed set forth on yet another adventure. They reveled in the ultra pleasant mix of cool, weightless air and the bright, radiant sun of Chile as they headed for Casablanca Valley.
Weaving through speckled with Poplar trees, Archer came upon a clearing where laughter and vivid storytelling filled the air. There, at a long, family-style dining table covered in mismatched plates of half-eaten desserts, wax-soaked candelabras and generous wine glasses marked with vibrant lip stains sat a lively, rambunctious group. A colorful mixture of debutantes, space explorers and even Annie Oakley herself, off to the side, lazily flipping through her phone.
Archer’s eyes sparkled. Not one to shy away from a good party, she knew immediately what she had happened upon. It’s something she calls the golden hour of the party. The aftermath of it all, when the close friends stay behind. A time when the dishes are ignored, heels are flung off and the entire night is debriefed via innocent gossip, ugly laughs, and binge-swiping right on multiple dating applications.
Nestled into the comfy rattan furniture, the women ushered her in. “We were just discussing Queen Elizabeth’s restorative cosmetic procedure focusing primarily on or around the nasal region,” Jane chirped. As Archer settled into the soft, velvety pillows, a large, chilled chalice of Sauvignon Blanc was thrust into her hand. She took a sip. The crisp, balanced minerality and hints of grapefruit danced along her taste buds. It was a taste she had yet to experience. And once that most certainly needed to be shared, almost as much as the sordid tales that would pass through her ears this evening.
And so, Archer sighed contentedly. Whatever kind of club this was, she was delighted she found herself joining it.