It was slate black outside — the only light came from cars whizzing past the house. But, it was bright inside…too bright even for a birthday party.

She had been drinking since just after lunch. Her tight top clung to her amazing bust like reynolds wrap with matching skin-tight black pants and too much eyeliner. It wasn’t Halloween, but the weather and atmosphere were an eerie match.

I had been across the street hastily slurping fine whiskey. Three shots down the hatch, cheering, goodwill, and I was back to the brightness of my living room: chattering crowd, loud music, some dancing. Across the room, I could see her nautical blue eyes staring — still in focus.

Her friend sat next to her on the couch. She wore a revealing leopard print shirt and standard issue tight-ass pants. She was below average-looking, but generally friendly and loquacious even when sober. It was her that called across the room for my attention. Looking cheerily into my eyes, she addressed me with yet another birthday greeting. I nodded nonchalantly and slid toward the kitchen. I was in an enhanced state of staggering calm when I was blindsided by a slurred emotional dagger.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO HIT ON HER… In front of ME?!”

I recoiled in horror for a moment, then felt rage bubbling inside my chest up from where the whiskey was still warm. Mr. JB burst out.

“WHAT?! YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS. I DON’T EVEN…YOU CAN’T…”

She started to scream, but it was unintelligible. I grabbed a ceramic plate and hurled it frisbee-style in her general direction. It struck a freshly extinguished candle — spraying wax purple wax all over the white wall behind it. The plate fell to the floor in pieces.

Most guests didn’t seem to mind — it was par for the exhaustive course.

I followed her wailing outside. She was alarmingly pretty — stumbling, incoherent ragaholic withstanding. I could see the car lights blazing a shadow through her curly blonde hair. She saw me coming and ran into the road.

“I’LL DO IT. You don’t even care about m…”

Somehow, I managed to drag her back inside to the ongoing party. My bleary-eyed best friend was cleaning wax from the wall.

She ran into the kitchen and grabbed the sharpest knife in the drawer. My head was spinning slightly. She stood there holding it…crying. The blade quivered inches above her wrist as tears dribbled mascara onto her cheeks.

I came up behind her — sad, no longer angry. My unthinking hand grabbed the knife by the blade and tossed it into the sink. I carried her into my bedroom and plopped her down on the bed, turned off the lights, and closed the door.

She fell asleep.