when invited to a cocktail party

i want to praise things that cannot last. i’ve stopped pulling out my phone to take pictures. i’ve stopped feeling the need to interrupt whatever is happening in the moment so i can chronicle, meals would go cold, moments missed, all for a subpar shot of a fancy pasta dish or an indistinct blur of the moon in a dark sky. there are people who are experts at this and no iphone will make you ansel adams. so i keep the device in my pocket or on the coffee table and i eat my fatty carbonara and let the fresh peas pop between my teeth and i can imagine my own netflix cooking show in my head with perfectly curated shots of silverware and wine glasses and i laugh at bad jokes in my own version of a cocktail dress which is really a summer sun dress, hot pink in a sea of black lacy numbers and impossible looking shoes and eye makeup i don’t understand. i keep my phone in my pocket even though i want to capture the fireplace and the old tufted leather couches with furs and velvet blankets. even though i’m tempted to curl up on the cowhide rug like a restoration hardware spread. i want a photo of what this feels like, like you could smell the whiskey and smoke and glamour of it all and in the middle of it, me and my green hair in a top knot, garish pink frock and sensible shoes.