I invited Roscoe and Emma over to celebrate. They were both old friends from art school--Roscoe was into large-scale expressionist paintings, and Emma did politically-motivated performance art. We often got together to enjoy the minuscule successes in our lives. It was an excuse to splurge on a jug of Carlo Rossi and spend the night lazying around on someone's couch or stairwell or whatever heaven we could find.
When they got here we sat down on the back patio and had some toast with orange marmalade and cracked open that bottle of wine. The sun was slowly lowering itself, becoming the hue of our marmalade.
"So y-you got an interview at s-Sears?" Roscoe asked. Roscoe was tall and blonde, with wide shoulders. Five years ago, just after graduating, he took a huge load of LSD and "w-w-wigged out on the sicky gnar-gnar," as he once put it. He was in some asylum for the next six months.
"Yeah, man. Tomorrow morning. In the portrait studio."
Emma smirked. "Oh great, really putting that photography degree to good use, huh? Helping out all those yuppie moms with brainwashing their children. Good for you."
I shrugged, we all laughed at our ridiculous selves. And this was how the night went on until well past sundown. At around 10pm, when the jug had a good 6 inches gone, Emma stood up, her cheeks rosy, and said "Let's go do something spontaneous. Let's walk to orchard and go steal us some apples!"
Roscoe and I grinned. It was too good of an idea to turn down.
The autumn air nipped at our noses as we set out, past my backyard, along the gravel road. Covered mostly in a thick cream of clouds, the moon was small and powerless. We wobbled and skipped and took comfort in the warmth of the alcohol and laughter.
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