Teenage kicks right through the night

Before the blast-off of engines, there were a few last bad decisions to be made. Crowded two too many into the car we headed east, then north, then east again, ending up off our usual grid, out of the city core; at the right apartment. The mob scene had already begun, what with its bathroom penetration, guns behind locked doors, kids on ketamine. The crazed young things, we called them, as if we weren’t still walking in their shoes.

With toothy smiles and clutching presents we raised a glass to the woman of the hour before settling onto couches, around tables, and on wash-and-dryer tops to watch the madness, participate, and watch again. The air was thick with sexual expression, frustration, confusion: they danced and drank the evening and their inhibitions straight away. Then as the door began to swing we decided it best not be the last left in the room, dialing our way backwards to the highway lights.

And as we stumbled towards bed sheets we spun past the clock, blinking its early morning hour. Spilling into our homes we set alarms with time ticking closer, and despite the cabs to call, bags to pack, and farewells to say, we blinked black windows away unbothered, thinking: this must be what it feels like to be young and in love.