Fumbling around my kitchen, I knock over a jar of cocktail stirrers, shattering its fragile contents in a mess of colored plastic. It's exactly 7:03 PM on what I've determined is the perfect party-throwing Saturday. I survey my preparations: an expanse of ice-cold cans arranged artlessly on a coffee table, my cousin's guitar lying on the couch next to an unoccupied plate, and that one album my aunt's boyfriend is convinced I won't know is by an actual musical genius. Someone knocks on the door already; probably that guy I met in marketing at an unrelated conference who claimed we're old friends – I still don't know his name.
1