To End All Parties
The world was about to end and I was at the party to end all parties.
Literally.
I was three years out of art school, living in Bushwick in a single bedroom apartment. Most of my friends were still in the city. We wore thrifted clothes and outrageous jewelry while patronizing independent coffee shops. I don’t deny that I was the stereotype of an art history major, but unlike my friends, I was careful. In other words, I was the ‘mom friend’. I worked a steady office job with potential for growth, saved 10% of every paycheck I earned, and sent another 10% to my parents in Idaho. I made plans for everything from vacation itineraries to restaurant reservations. I even had a marriage timeline: I’d fall in love at 28, move in with my partner at 30, and get married by 32.
I spent my life planning for the future—a future that would never come.
While the rest of the world broke into a blind panic, my friends reacted with astounding clarity. It was decided that we would have a party right before the dreaded finale. We wouldn’t mourn the end of humanity. Oh, no. We would die drinking, dancing, singing, and loving.
I volunteered to host the festivities. Soon, my apartment was overwhelmed with the warmth of writhing bodies and an explosion of LED lights. Stacks upon stacks of beer crates filled my living room. Couples made out on my fire escape between languid puffs from their cigarettes. It smelled like sex and vodka and life.
I stood removed from the unapologetic passion. Without my typical hostess duties—why clean when we’d all be gone soon?—I had nothing to do but stew. Why the hell had I been so practical? Where had it gotten me? I was a responsible bundle of anxiety with nothing to show for my 24 years on Earth. Well, besides for a decent amount of savings I’d never spend.
I snapped out of my existential spiral when I saw broad shoulders and a tall, lean frame, looking out from rounded glasses. It was my neighbor from across the hall. My neighbor — who looked at me with such kindness. Who always seemed to blush when he saw me. Who went out jogging in those tight leggings. And had runner’s legs to prove it.
Okay, I had a little bit of a crush.
He noticed me from across the apartment. With a little wave, he made his way over, beer in hand.
“Hey, neighbor. You’re Amanda, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “You’re Nathan from B3?”
“That’s me.”
“Thanks for coming by.”
His face lit up. “No, thank you for throwing a rager. I was so damn tired of listening to my parents play those apocalyptic sermons on TV.”
“God, that’s not how I wanna go out.”
“I’d much rather get drunk with a bunch of strangers. I‘ve already done my responsible son duties.”
“Strangers?” I arched a brow.
“Neighbors,” he corrected.
I wondered why Nathan wasn’t elsewhere. He seemed to have plenty of friends. After sharing a hallway for over two years, I felt like I knew many of his habits, patterns, quirks. For example, I knew that he had a penchant for vintage blazers, suede boots, and wireframe glasses. He also wore his curly hair in a sort of windswept, stylishly messy style, no matter what time of day. Nathan always struck up a conversation if we were in the elevator together, asking me about my work, my life, my favorite bars in the neighborhood. He threw dinner parties for his students once a month and went running with a group on weekend mornings. Then there were the times I ran into women sheepishly leaving his unit in the morning. Surely, he could’ve had one of those girls over?
I’d rather he invited me over instead.
“It’s better than being alone,” I admitted.
“That it is.”
REM blasted over the speakers for what had to be the twentieth time. Nathan laughed and bopped his head to the music. Then he shimmied in my direction, bumping shoulders with me. “Hey. Lighten up, it’s only the apocalypse.”
I couldn’t help but smile and take a sip from my red plastic cup. “You’re taking this pretty well.”
“What can I say? I love a party.”
I considered his face for a long moment in the pink neon light. He was definitely handsome in that English teacher kind of way. With a prominent nose, thick hair, and sharp features.
He scrutinized me just the same. “What’s got you looking so… depressed?”
I suddenly felt my cheeks burning. Thankfully, the dark party lights hid my reaction. “The end of the world isn’t good enough?”
“But that’s not really why people are upset,” He explained. “Everyone’s thinking about regrets, the people they shouldn’t have let go. Things like that. So what are you thinking about?”
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