Heading straight into the darkness, I drive home from the party. Can you call a wedding a party? Should it be more important than that? I drive home, still in my bridesmaids dress, the pink one the color of a Starburst. I leave the braid in my hair and my bouquet on the passenger seat. My cousin won’t be back until Monday, so I’ve got the place to myself all weekend. I sleep in her loft bed and make myself avocado toast. I'm still lonely, but it’s getting better. I still get drunk and try to call people from the past, but I didn't drink tonight, and so I drive on the 101 south, Ventura, Camarillo, Thousand Oaks, Agoura Hills, Calabasas, Hollywood. I park in the garage and take the elevator up to her apartment. It takes four make-up wipes to take my make-up off. They litter the garbage like silk paintings. The only thing he asked me was where I found the cheese and crackers. I clapped when people danced, I ate my chicken and I ate my cake. I put on my cardigan when it got cold. He looked happy enough. I decided everyone should be happy, or something.
I get into bed and look at pictures I took on my phone from the party. I scroll through the images of girls in pink candy dresses, I think of sending one of myself to someone, but there is no one now. Maybe it was just a party.