It was the night of our last party. Your parents didn’t care to see you graduate and your lease ended that Monday, so Friday night was the last time we piled into that one bedroom apartment. May’s heat felt like July and your AC was busted, so we panted like dogs while sitting around your TV, huddled in the smell of our sweat and cigarettes. The stolen street signs you hung up like hunting trophies stared down at us from the yellowed walls while we killed your vodka, drinking from the bottle we passed. We couldn’t afford anything nicer than the eight dollar handle, let alone solo cups. Zac Efron leaked through what remained of the speaker, the beer stains that clogged its wires drowned the High School Musical soundtrack in static.
Halfway through the handle, a smile crept out from under your baseball cap–the gray Bud Light one I broke back in April. The strap on the back was snapped and the brim flopped over your glasses, so you communicated through teeth. Not that you’d be able to see much anyway. From under the Margartiaville lawn chair that you made your throne, you kicked me the box of matches. Seeing that the box of two-fifty still had like a hundred left, we shared a grin.
This all started the night of your first party–we were half baked and fully melted into your bed, taking turns trading burns for secrets. The rules were simple. One burn, one secret. But this night some hookup had taken over your room, so we kicked back on the sofa.
You lit the first match and put it out on my arm.
I told you that I was going to miss you.
You laughed, said that it was a good ride, and chucked the butt of the match into the plastic trash can in the far corner of the room–one of those thin pink-plastic ones from Target, the kind your mom buys for your freshman year dorm. The match unceremoniously sank into the crust of last night’s puke.
“You think we’ll keep in touch after this?”
You threw me a toothy smile and the box of matches, as if you wanted me to get on with it.
My turn. The flame dug into your calf, singing your leg hair.
You laughed and told me the doctors said you’d be blind in a few years. Apparently the eye condition got worse. You knew you were half blind, but didn’t know it would get that bad that fast.
I asked how you felt about it. You didn’t answer, but grabbed the matchbox back from me.
Your turn. I told you I ended up doing what you said last time. Something about Buddhism. Made myself dinner and just ate it in silence–no music, no phone, no nothing.
“What you learn?”
“I dunno, felt like that detachment thing you talk about. About accepting life the way it is or something. Trying to care less about things I can’t control.”
You told me I was starting to get it and handed me the matches.
My turn. The match singed into your bicep, squealing like a pig.
You said I was the first person you met who wouldn’t even lighten up while drinking. But you’d miss me too, even if we only really knew each other drunk.
I swallowed my response. Not like I had one anyway. I just gave you the box.
Your turn. Fire on my hand, smoke seeping into the lines on my palm.
Before I spoke I was interrupted by the bang of glass against hardwood. Jess, the freshman who didn’t even know what alcohol was until three months ago, was sucked into some conversation. Something was so funny that she barreled her head over and flailed her arms, knocking over the bottle, leaving the vodka to puddle underneath the pink trash can.
“Jess, the fuck is your problem? I let you people into my apartment like three days a week, get you drunk, and you don’t even know how to drink?”
“Oh my god I’m so sorry,” She slurred, the words basically falling out of her mouth. “I didn’t mean it.”
“You know how expensive that shit was? It’s the first glass handle of vodka we’ve had in months.” You spat half sarcastically, before seeing drunken guilt flush her cheeks red. “Whatever. I’m mostly fucking with you anyway.”
She sat in silence, not knowing what to say. “Thanks for hosting though.”
You shot her a smile, lifting your chin so she could see your face. You smiled with your eyes this time, as if you were telling her you really loved her. Not a romantic love, but one of friendship. Teeth spilled from her red face in a crooked crescent, as whole of a smile as her state allowed.
Forgetting you burned me earlier, or maybe wanting to piss me off, you lit another match and hit my ear. Wincing, I snapped and took the match out of your hands and threw it, still half lit, to be extinguished in the vomit. But the match came up short of the bin, falling on the ground.
It dwindled on the floor for a moment, unsure of itself, before meeting the spilled vodka. The fire started slow, seeping into the hardwood’s cracks and licking the planks. I didn’t notice the smell of smoke until the flame caught your damn Margaritaville lawn chair.
Within a minute, the room was engulfed in a blaze.
Fuck.
I ran over and tried to beat the flames out, but at that point there wasn’t much to do. Not like you had a fire extinguisher.
Everybody out.
We stood in the middle of the street, now sober, just watching that apartment burn.
But we both know there was no fire that night. Maybe that’s what I tell myself now to make it more interesting. The real story’s a lot more boring–I told you to chill out on Jess, you got mad, we fought. You graduated the next day and moved out. We made up, but things weren’t the same. Turns out your antics are a lot more insufferable when they’re behind a screen, when your toothy smirk can’t slide us a whiff of sarcasm or affection. Even when we did hang out, you grew even more bitter, driving the others away. Maybe it was your eyes. Maybe it was my stubbornness. Maybe it was because you stopped buying us alcohol. Eventually it was just us, burning each other in silence, no secrets left to be shared.
But those burn marks still litter my arms. I don’t think they’ll ever leave. Sometimes my glance will catch them out of the corner of my eye. I look down and feel you still laughing. I hope you still have them too–stuck to you like these memories.
You know I still owe you a secret from that night. From the match that burned down your place. One I’ve been holding onto for awhile, something I don’t want to admit. I know we both hate each other now, but I still really look up to you. You and your detachment. I’m sorry I couldn’t immortalize our memories and preserve the green of that spring forever. All I have is a story that’s half real, just like our friendship. But that’s good enough for you, isn’t it?
Writer | Izzy Baird ‘27 | ibaird27@amherst.edu
Editor | Karen Lee ‘25 | kslee25@amherst.edu