The sun had surrendered for the day, and the porch was humming with margarita-fueled laughter and the satisfaction that comes from surviving another event through team effort. Gus had set up the blender like a command station. He was wearing boxers and a layer of lime zest. Myrtle wore a sarong with suspicious fluid stains and one hoop earring, in the lead and starting her second round. The rest of us filled out the porch with an extra-casual midwesterners-on-extended-vacation vibe.
It was a good evening. The kind you feel in your chest. Safe. Stupid. Alive.
