The Taco Fiesta

They came and drank and ate. One by one, two by two. Tacos and tequila. Chili and vodka and beer. Red wine and soju. Twenty plus tightly packed my two room flat. Sitting on the floor, standing in the kitchen. From America, New Zealand, Uruguay, the Philippines, Korea, Lithuania, Uzbekistan, Cuba, and Brazil, they came. All passengers together that night. For what reason? When the air was heavy and our heads were light, we turned the lights down low and danced in the living room till the cops came. We were keeping the slowly dying awake, they said. Apologies, because someday won't we all want to die quietly in peace? The music off, we strum our guitars, and Justas produces two mouth harps, which none but him can will to sing. Gabe is still heating tacos till late in the night. The chili's gone and so is the Filipino ceeceek. Someone's passed out on my bed or on the floor. Someone's spilled candle wax by the door. Justas has started doing card tricks, everyone's watching, but I'm too tired now to abandon my seat on the couch. Was she stroking my hair? Or was I dreaming?

Come morning, Justas and Fyaz remained. Ara and her Busan friends caught the first train home at 6:30. I awoke, just newly asleep, to say farewell and thank you for coming and shake your hand warmly, and see you again soon. Get up past noon and fry up the last taco for breakfast and survey the wreckage of the previous night. We're all smiles and groans. The party was a success, but the headaches are hammers, the trash bags are waiting, and a biting rain is beginning to fall on a cold winter's afternoon.