At some party in some loft in some part of downtown, you wander around looking for your girlfriend, drifting from room to room in the massive penthouse suite that someone told you was purchased by “oil scion money.” There’s the main living room, packed to the gills with extroverts; there’s stoners, who have camped out in the bedroom of the roommate who’s working a shift tonight, and even made sure to have the other roommate promise her that nobody would sit on her bed, let alone spill kief; and then there are the rooms that seem to defy categorization, like the one you’re in now. A half dozen people are standing in a circle, watching a young woman try and attempt a headstand next to a red Solo cup, which you assume is her drink. When people talk, they murmur, and it gives the room (with the music and the dialogue from the extroverts leaking in through the cracks around the door) a pleasant, unexpected feeling of solemnity. You tap the shoulder of the man closest to you. “What’s going on?” you ask.
“Shh. We’re watching her,” he says, indicating to the headstand girl, “seize the day.”