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March Forth

My gays and girls showed up an hour before the birthday party started.

Helped me plate food and fill ice buckets and quarter lemons.

They shoved me out of the kitchen at 9pm to change my sneakers and T-shirt.

I slipped on heels and lipstick seconds before the first knock on the front door.

For the first few hours, I moved between the kitchen and foyer, greeting guests—jackets in the bedroom, drinks at the window bar, smoking in the kitchen—or clearing away empty bottles of prosecco.

There was a moment around midnight, while straddling two different conversations, when I looked across the living room and realized my house was filled with 40 of my favorite New Yorkers.

Someone had turned off the bedroom and foyer lights.

Moved the Eames coffee table and Stickley out of the way.

An impromptu dance floor was swelling to the beats of Keri Hilson and Timbaland.

A celebrity who’d arrived with some friends was enjoying a degree of anonymity in a dark corner.

Shouts were going up from the kitchen.

The Painter was on the couch, surrounded by three of my girlfriends.

As I stood between a bookcase and Alberto’s urn, champagne in hand, I smiled.

A big, unabashed smile.

Tonight is exactly what this apartment needed.

Exactly what I needed.

I set down my champagne and excused myself.

From the conversation.

From my place between the bookcase and urn.

I slid toward the dance floor.

Kicked off my gold heels and danced ‘til effing dawn.

  1. foreverdaydreamer said: this is so beautiful Tre. you truly are an inspiration.