Narrative Essay: The Dressers

His breath oozed with airy alcohol. Eleven weeks, and she’d been doing well. But birthdays were hard. This kid in front of her wasn’t even old enough to be drinking, but he was doing it. And she thought it was cute, the way he leaned on the support pillar in the musty basement, which made for a nice dance floor.

He was refreshing. Quick with his words and slow with his ears, when it was his turn to listen.

“Look, Amanda.. Amanda, right?”

“Right.. What?”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Well, I know you’re not old enough to drink.”

He gestured like he was holding up some invisible egg.

“Why would you think that? I’m drinking, aren’t I?”

“Right… You’re right. So you’re twenty-one, I’m guessing.?.”

“Is that your guess?”

“Yes. Final answer.”

“Well hold on, before I tell you, I want to know how old you are.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“Ok, wow, so what I have here in front of me is a twenty-four year old, blonde-haired woman in a knee-length skirt, drinking a glass-bottled Coca-Cola. That’s an interesting person for an interesting conversation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, can I be honest with you, Amanda? Can I tell you the truth.?.”

“Yes.. C’mon. What.?.”

“You’re going to be disappointed in me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m nineteen. I’m drinking illegally. And so, I’m a criminal.”

“Hardly.” She said, serving two eye rolls.

He laughed and sipped his 16 ounce beer. That’s one pint.

“Well, now that I’ve told you what I am. It’s yo...

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...we’ll see!”

And there’s a number he looks at in his phone belonging to “emoji emoji CHRIST PARTY WHOO”.

Amanda and Taylor drove home in the silence of a broken radio. And in the silence of a broken radio, anything said shouldn’t count.

Amanda felt bad enough.

And despite all that she said, Taylor felt bad enough, too.

And but, in the days ahead, whatever memories end up rising to the top will be put into a flat, square box of context. They’ll be packaged and stored. And whenever the memories surface again, they’ll be packed tighter, making room for what’s needed. What a shame, too. Things will be forgotten and altered. Nothing can exist separately without reason. Time’s line mustn’t be dotted. The present can never exist as it is. It must always be dressed. What a shame, too, how we layer it.