This Is a Tick-Tock

8:27 p.m.: The cocktail party is in motion. Tables are set with absurd amounts of beautiful food all made by Feather Girl, who, granted, works for a foodie magazine, but still:

There are mini banh-mi sandwiches. There are shot glasses of carrot soup with crostini.

There are fucking pickled carrots. HAND-pickled.

There are hibiscus-flower margaritas. Lychee-something yellow drinks. Recipes for Manhattans on little cards in case you want to mix your rye. I pour some neat into what looks like an egg cup.

Feather Girl tells me, in her purple dress and feather headpiece, that she is terrible at enjoying her own parties.

9:00 p.m. Ladyfriend and husband arrive. She is wearing a white dress cinched with a black belt and looks beautiful. She does not know what to drink. By evening’s end, I believe she will have sorted this out.

9:15 p.m.: My friend in from out of town is approximately 45 minutes late. I assume he has been swallowed in the subway. A Worldly European Photojournalist, one believes he can find his way.

9:17 p.m.: WEP arrives, dashing in white linen, we joyously hug and share a strangely large number of cheek kisses.

9:19 p.m.: WEP and I settle in for an evening of close chatting.

9:42 p.m.: Mza arrives in a knee-length shift carrying a Tupperware container of Crystal Light and vodka that looks like slightly electrified diluted urine.

9:57 p.m.: WEP and I sit on the front stoop and greet the Cardinal, who arrives in a button-down shirt unbuttoned farcically far enough to reveal his chest tattoo of a dragon. Which is less revealing, one could say, than his usual wife-beater. Close on his heels comes Newly Divorced, dressed like a cracked-out pimp, with a gold chain and fedora.

10:38 p.m.: WEP and I escape to catch most of a concert by my friends. We are greeted from the stage as we enter. We are pleased.

12:21 a.m.: WEP and I return to the party to see louche partygoers lounging across the stoop. “The hostess is passed out somewhere,” they inform us.

12:23 a.m.: We go inside. It is loucher. Ladyfriend, Mr. Ladyfriend, My Fake Boyfriend, Stunning Very Young Friend and the rest are either dancing or sprawled on the couch. We continue to circulate in and out of the apartment, sharing cigarettes, finishing bottles of wine.

1:32 a.m.: WEP asks me when the New York subway closes. “Never,” I say. “Never?” he says. Never. He departs soon thereafter. I am sad.

1:52 a.m.: Mr. Ladyfriend attempts to negotiate a 15-minute nap before leaving out of Feather Girl’s brother. He fails.

2:00 a.m.: A group of us makes an egress to a local bar. Then quickly we retreat to another. There, we meet up with Mza and her party. “You again,” says one of its more handsome members. “Twice in one week.”

3:00 a.m.: You Again is soon attempting to get me to [REDACTED] him in the bathroom.

3:30 a.m.: I snag Seattle as he happens by the bar while I’m outside with YA. He walks the young lady he is with to the car and joins our roving band of absurdity.

3:44 a.m.: My Fake Boyfriend leaves arm-in-arm with the Stunning Very Young Friend.

4:04 a.m.: [REDACTED]

4:28 a.m. The view of Manahattan from the roof is twinkly and fresh.

5:07 a.m.: [REDACTED]

5:28 a.m.: Sleep.

12:19 p.m.: Phone. (Ignore.)

12:20 p.m.: Phone. (Ignore.)

12:54 p.m.: Listen to voicemails. “Hi, this is [REDACTED]. I think I left my camera at Feather Girl’s house. And, um, I think there are naked pictures of me on it?”

12:56 p.m.: Discover that YA sent a dirty photograph of himself to my e-mail at 5:29 a.m.

12:56 p.m.: I break into hysterical laughter.

…

This morning.

10:35 a.m.: I reassure Feather Girl that passing out at her own party was fantastic. She tells me she got up at some point and ended up at a bar till 6 a.m. “What bar?” I ask. “I have no idea,” she says.

10:42 a.m.: My Fake Boyfriend writes: “Yeah, her brother finally had the sense to tell us to leave, or we might still be there.”

10:45 a.m.: Mza writes: “I passed out on my bed with my dress and boots on.” Which, I will add, comes on the heels of a message from Mr. Africa on Saturday: “I must have had a good night. I woke up fully dressed, shoes on, hugging my bag.”

1:15 p.m.: I give up on this tick-tock. I laugh again.

...

UPDATE 3:27 p.m.:

Feather Girl: I lost my underwear.

McBickle: Noooo.

Feather Girl: Apparently I took them off.

Feather Girl: And now I can't find them.

Feather Girl: They were pink velvet.

McBickle: Noooo.

Feather Girl: And they felt too warm when I was drunk.

Feather Girl: My friend thinks someone stole them. For panty sniffing. This was around midnight.