Pack something for the unexpected.

We lose our friends almost immediately. Finding them takes longer than it should. A saxophone cuts through the DJ’s next track and the whole room answers. We are singing into a stranger’s ear, being kissed halfway through the chorus. Someone raises a phone. Security has a quiet word. No photographs. A pity. We have never looked better. Our shoes are in the pool. Neither of us remembers why. At three, we are making plans with people whose surnames we may never learn. Bali comes up. Apparently, we are going.

November in Bali. Rain is making itself heard beyond the open doors. Someone from Thailand walks in. We recognize the laugh before we see the face. Twelve places are set, but nobody stays in the right chair for long. Someone admires our emerald ring. We lend it to them for the evening. Incense drifts in from the garden. We made a wish before dinner. Across the table, someone is beginning to look like an answer. By the time the music draws us up, we have agreed to something for January.

January in St Barth. We come back from the water with salt drying at our wrists and enough time to dress. In theory. A borrowed cufflink passes between rooms. Someone has opened champagne while looking for an earring. We ask for an opinion at the mirror and get three, all of them helpful. Now we have to choose. A few months ago, we were introducing ourselves. Tonight, someone knows exactly which shirt we should wear and feels emboldened to say so. We leave the door open while we finish getting ready.

Spring in Los Angeles. Our friend from St Barth recognizes the shirt and takes credit for it. They hold one of the five founding memberships NG will ever have. Their usual drink arrives while they introduce us to someone new. At dinner, that someone takes the conversation somewhere unexpected. By the time the music starts, we are hoping it continues. A hand finds ours on the way to the garden. We leave the sentence unfinished.

June finds us in New York. Our friends want the whole story. We give them a few versions before someone brings us a drink. A late arrival knows which part we have left out. Summer comes in through an open window. Someone who arrived alone is bringing a friend. We are halfway to the stairs when the DJ plays another song. We turn back. Sunday is ours until twilight. We had plans for the morning. We are beginning to find them funny.

Back in Los Angeles, our friends wave us over to their reserved table near the performance. We squeeze between people we have wanted to meet since New York. Champagne is being poured when the room falls quiet. Even the person beside us forgets what they were about to say. Then the DJ takes over. We leave our glasses and take each other with us. July gives us another Saturday. We move our flight.

August, and New York lets us pick up where we left off. We have booked a room. After dinner, we go upstairs to change, taking longer than the clothes require. Downstairs, the party has found a new cast. Someone who came just for the dancing asks how our evening began. We introduce them to the person beside us. By the end of the night, we are comparing flights to Mykonos.

By late August, a song from New York has followed us to Mykonos. We come back from the sea later than we meant to, our careful hair surrendered to the wind. Later, we dance with someone we thought we knew and discover a persuasive new side to them. In the morning, a finger finds the bedside button. Coffee arrives while we are still debating breakfast. We reach for the menu together. The robes can wait.

Late September in Paris, and the clothes we brought finally meet their city. We have dressed for someone, although we are keeping that to ourselves. At dinner, a conversation becomes an argument we are enjoying far too much to settle. Someone suggests we settle it upstairs, with the lights off. Someone else changes sides just to sit closer. We miss dessert. When we return, we are wearing each other’s jackets. Later, dancing, we catch our reflection and forget to inspect it. We look happy.

November finds us in Miami, still a little hazy on what happened that night in Paris. Our friends have heard every version and would like a demonstration. We offer them a drink instead. By December, someone we met upstairs in Paris is beside us on the dance floor. They lean close enough to remind us. Across the room, a friend is asking who is coming to St Barth. We raise our hands without letting go.