After we moved out of our Center Street house we hosted one last party. Just a few people, wandering the empty rooms which used to house our lives and our things and our bored moments and our drunken squabbling.
We’d already shown the landlord how pretty and clean it was, each room eerily bare and stripped of our collection of possessions. But we knew the house lay dormant and unlocked; it lured us back in just once more.
The oppressive emptiness funneled us all into Robbie’s old room, where we set up a battered set of folding chairs and passed around a bottle of Seagrams. Lara sat cross-legged on the floor, packing a bowl. The smoke from our cigs and pot stained the faded walls and seeped into the ratty carpet.
At sunrise we stumbled out to our cars and drove away one last time, down wide Center St. and a right turn onto State College and onto the 57. Behind us we left empty beer bottles and ash and Robbie’s favorite pipe and two inches of Seagrams still stagnant in the bottle and our former lives.