The R.S.V.P.

All the numbers added up to eleven. As we head inside, I'm greeted by organic and artificial figures. Funny and friendly, he introduces us to his friends. Today was one of many firsts in this new body. I took myself for a test drive and asked if the clique wants to shoot a round of Kettle One. It was the only nostalgic place I had with liquor. My dad and my grandma would celebrate on Tuesdays. The host and I would drink up, exchange a hug, and tour the house party. Destination #1, the studio. For years and seconds have I been dreaming to be here. And as I get lost in the keys, they go off with the rest of the tour. I was having an intimate moment, longing for what could've been, but what was already here.

In the search of me, my friends reenter the room. A bird and a snake, the snake laughs: "Are you being anti-social?" In a hasty exit, she adds, "I wish I could play." And there I was, already feeling hungover on energy leeches and misaligned insecurities. And the party goes on, and it's perfect. Bodies dancing till' were sore, and raising glasses till' we're bored. But I always carried the ick of her in my mind from time to time. Judging others in front of me, and sending my photos in group chats beside me. I spotted a few snakes in the grass tonight, I discovered a few birds in the sky, and I held compassion for all as I enjoyed my night. Most importantly, the past was left behind me. We ended up at the barber shop, and even if the lights and music weren't dancing, my heart was, and I've never felt more me.

The R.S.V.P.

written by Jacob Green on March 16, 2025

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