My past swirls around the plastic Solo cup, its fluorescent yellow color spiked with Moonshine.

 

It’s disgusting. 

 

There’s no way this could ever go down smooth, but I tip the cup up anyway, drowning myself in a haze of liquor and memories, Yellowcard’s "Ocean Avenue" pumping out of the speakers of this nostalgia party. 

 

Sweaty bodies of people I don’t care for bounce up and down throughout the living room as we listen to our collective past, but my thoughts go to you, the one who once said I could read you like a book.

 

Our time was short, burned by a bonfire with no warmth and a house lit with incandescent bulbs that shone bright against the backdrop of a country Autumn night.  I followed you like a fool into that empty home, only barely keeping my bearings as I sidestepped our mutual desires. 

 

Thank God you’re not here.

 

The living room begins to spin—the music another song we all scream to—we haven’t heard this one in years. 

 

I let the alcohol flow through my veins—as if I could stop it. This high school reunion has been a bitch, but when I catch my Uber back to my hotel, I’ll gladly go back to my life, forgetting this evening as well as my memories of you, the taste of your lips no longer relevant. 

 

You didn’t want me, and I’ll be okay.