For reasons of a hello, a good-bye, a hello again, and a happy birthday, we laid out the strawberries and grapes, the dried figs and dates and apricots, the fruit bread, the chocolate-covered grahams, the hunk of Manchego, the quince paste, the sparkling wine, the dark chocolate fudge cake topped with colorful skinny candles. We turned the lights down, we rolled up the fuzzy rug, we shoved aside the sofa, we hooked up Gab’s music hard drive. We made a toast: “So, hello, Andrea, who arrived today from Singapore—” “Yaaaayy.” “—and good-bye, Gab, who leaves tomorrow for Paris—” “Aawww.” “—and the other hello comes later, when Jason arrives from Texas, and happy birthday, Rachel,” and then we sang Happy Birthday. And then there was dancing like feeling good, and there was feeling good like dancing.

(The only bad vibes were when Jeff said, “There’s an angry neighbor at the door,” and I said, “Really?” and he said, “Yes,” and I said, “Really?” and he said, “Yes,” and I went to the door, and a woman who would be played by Kathy Bates in the movie version of my life—wait, who would play me in the movie version of my life? And can Jude Law play every guy I’ve ever dated? Or even every guy I know? Or, heck, just every guy?—was standing there, and she said, “Hi, I live above you, and I have all my windows closed and I can still hear everything, and I have to be up at five-thirty tomorrow for work, so I’m sorry but would you turn it down?” And I thought to say, “Five-thirty? Sucks to be you,” but instead I said, “Oh, yes, of course, sorry,” even though ten-thirty, even on a weeknight, doesn’t seem like inconsiderate timing. An hour later, she was at the door again, and she said, “I called the super, and he said I should call the police if it’s still a problem, but I don’t want to call the police, so would you please?” and I said, “Um, okay, sorry,” but the thing is, we’d turned it down so much I couldn’t even hear the downstairs music from upstairs in my own apartment, so I wasn’t sure what else I could do to help her out. Maybe I’ll bake her a loaf of banana bread tomorrow.)

When “Kiss” came on, I went upstairs to India and Tom and said, shimmying, “You guys, you’re missing it: U don’t have 2 be rich 2 be my girl / U don’t have 2 be cool 2 rule my world / Ain’t no particular sign I’m more compatible with—” and India and Tom said, “Oh, this is much better than Prince.”

This was, of course, before we were all looking around saying, “Where’s Tom?”, before Gab went and found him asleep on the floor in the study, a torso and legs emerging from beneath two pillows in lilac unicorn pillowcases. I leaned over and rubbed his tummy and said, “Um, Tom? Can I call you a car to go home?” “No,” he said, muffled, under the pillows, “I’m just, this is, this is good, I just wanted something, something chill.” “How’s the tummy rub?” I said. “That’s good, too,” he said. And then Gab said we should maybe give him a blanket, so we did.

This was, of course, after we were all looking around saying, “Where’s Andrea?”, before Tom went and found her asleep on my bed. “I went into your bedroom to maybe take a nap,” he said, “but Andrea beat me to it.” “Well,” I said, “you could go make better friends with her.” “She’s sprawled out diagonally,” he said, “there’s just no way.”

And then it was 2:22, and Jason and me and Maud were the only ones up to make a wish.

It was a sweet morning with sleepover friends stumbling out from basements and backrooms, me and Andrea and Tom and Gab sitting at the table with breakfast and sunshine. And oh, how we breakfasted, with muesli and walnut-raisin toast and fruit bread and smoked salmon and orange juice and a pot of very strong coffee and a pot of very strong tea.

(The fruit bread story is, the extra loaf of fruit bread had been carefully wrapped in wax paper and was sitting on the counter to go home with Maud, but she said, “You don’t have any left after your party, and the way you were talking about it before, about having some for breakfast, toasted and buttered, there was a something in your eye, and I really think I should leave this here for you.” And this is why we like this girl, because when she is right she is so right; because, my word, this was the kind of fruit bread that was baked with whole dried figs and apricots and fat dates, so that when you cut a slice, especially if it is a slice that cuts through a fig, it has a cross-section of scientific exquisiteness, all those tiny seeds enclosed in a dark circle; and then, really, the toasting, and the buttering, and, oh, mmm.)

When I emerged from the shower later, the boys, smokes in hand, had the windows open to the day.