My parents used to have parties when I was little—parties with lots of people; invariably my mother on the piano and a stack of records on the record player.
They danced. I suppose they drank, though I don’t recall that part. My sister and I watched, through the heat grate in my parent’s bedroom, strategically placed above the living room sofa.
We felt like spies while we stretched out on the floor on our tummies; our noses pressed to the grate as the cigarette smoke wound its way up through this strategic hole in the floor and around us.