A Final Farewell

The champagne bottle was tilted, half-full, and waiting to be sipped. It looked as if it was about to spill, at any moment causing a tragic trickle all over Lauren’s sparkly, red shirt. Regardless, she held it close to her chest. Her blissful smile and half-closed, glassy eyes indicated she had probably finished a bottle or two before this one; even if a trickle had occurred, she probably wouldn’t have minded much at that point. It was New Year’s Eve after all, spillage of champagne was inevitable, if not mandatory. Eric’s arm hung loosely next to her, his smile radiating an air of celebration. It was the carefree, drunken smile of youth, of happy times full of laughs, drinks, and good friends.

A photograph on my dressing table provides a constant reminder of Eric’s presence. Two of my best friends from high school stare back at me with my own reflection every time I look in the mirror. I had known Eric throughout high school, and we formed a bond through many nights of drinking forties and cheap vodka at our friend Derek’s weekend basement parties. Our friendship evolved passed the superficial, albeit fun, alcohol-fueled nights of high school, and grew into something genuine, even as we went our separate ways to our respective universities. Come school breaks, we would spend many a reunited night rehashing our college experiences, including all of its comedies and tragedies—heartbreaks, intoxicated nights, and new beginnings.

After a life-altering semester abroad in Barcelona, I came back to my suburban hometown to idle away my summer vacation sleeping in, staying up late yearning for my blissful Mediterranean city, and hanging out with my high school friends whose presence in my life was becoming slighter as the years flitted by. Eric was one of those few friends that I adored consistently. He was that guy anyone would want as a best friend, a comrade, a partner in crime; he had one of those wise, old souls that radiated awareness beyond his twenty-one years. He was so down to earth that it could never be taken as conceit; rather something inherent in him that I was lucky and observant enough to notice. He was my go-to guy friend for boy advice, not because he had a plethora of relationship experience under his belt, but because he knew the exact way to comfort me and make me laugh like no one else.

That summer Eric got a tattoo—a black tribal design on his forearm to counterpart the ones he already had on his leg and back. He sauntered up the stairs to my parent’s house after he got it, clad in a leather jacket, his long hair and trademark beard (its size and shape changed monthly) a matted mess from riding his new, red motorcycle that he loved, and his parents hated. He walked proudly up the stairs, then tripped and fell—his badass appearance shattered in an instant, bringing him back to his goofy, light-hearted self.