Another Sunday morning has come, and you’re in a stranger’s kitchen wearing the Dolce dress from last night – “I still look right” you’re telling yourself. The heavenly dough-eyed blonde next to you is telling her Berlin story (again), to anyone who would listen. The previously soft-spoken Asian girl is now making weirdly accurate cat noises, while her friend lights her last Marlboro gold over the stove hood, in effort to minimize the smell. It reeks. You sip your diluted rum and coke, and shout “Is there more ice?” – “First drawer in the freezer” shouted the girl wearing her braids in two perfect pigtails. “Thanks doll,” you replied. Everyone is calling each other ‘doll’ and ‘babe’. The personalization that comes with first names is too much at this hour, but that story about your dead childhood friend is OK! Heartwarming even. “Thanks for sharing babes”. Ah, the sweet sense of community – it’s addictive. ‘Another Day In Paradise’ by Phil Collins is playing now – “What a grand song” you think to yourself. “So fitting”. The quiet DJ guy is taking pictures of everyone. It’s odd, but your friend says he’s also a photographer, so it’s okay.
“GIRLs, I’m heading out. I’m having lunch with my boyfriend’s mom in 2 hours, but this was so fucking fun! Let’s keep in touch, what’s your Instagram?” announced the atomic blonde. You never saw her again, or any of the GIRLs for that matter – Except that one time you ran into the cat-noise-producing Asian girl at a baby shower. She didn’t remember you, but your name did ring a bell, doll.
