Strawberry, Lemon

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.