By the end of the night, they were all sprawled on the bed, tea light candles flickering and stomachs full, lips stained purple from the wine. They were all exactly where they wanted to be, and that place was with her, in her crappy studio, suddenly almost beautiful because of them. They didn’t even care about the flatware or the wineglasses—she knew it. They just liked that her home was a place where they could take off their shoes and stretch out on her bed and tell stories of mortification and stories of hope and get a little bit drunk. She wanted them to stay forever.
