Steve's party

Gaz rang to tell me about a bottle of red wine. It had appeared on his doorstep with a card attached to inform him that he’d won the tipple in a competition, one he had no recollection of entering. It had been duly accepted and he proposed we drink it in the evening. Later on, I was told of a house party hosted by Steve. I’d been to a previous gathering of his and it had been a good time. The same ambience welcomed us as the door opened to this pleasant debauchery. With the anonymity of Gatsby, an unknown face urged us in with a sideways glance. For a moment I expected him to refer to us as ‘old sports’, but a wordless invitation was the method of choice. The house was generously occupied by a throng of teenagers, something Gaz enjoyed immensely. Feeling a little out of place and perhaps a bit old we headed for the sanctuary of the kitchen, an area where people generally stayed only the required time it would take to crack open whatever alcohol they may be possessing (the drink from a seemingly endless and unspecified source), only a scatter of bottle tops and corks remaining in their wake. We soon came across the hedonistic unit known as Chris. He amused us as he entered with intoxicated gestures and assumed a pose of expressive inebriation, while Gaz and myself drank wine and mused over Nic’s global travels, with the harmonics of Ben’s freeplay on the piano drifting through from the adjoining room and out into the darkness of the garden.
The evening came and went with unnerving alacrity. The drink must be to blame. We finished up in Steve’s bedroom. I had entered via the window by the use of a random ladder from the garden. We listened to some excellent jazz, chatted, finished our drinks and promptly left. That was the party at Steve’s house.