Party

The restaurant is a short walk from Samantha’s loft, in a wooden house tucked under the Williamsburg Bridge. Samantha’s friend has reserved a long table. The ceiling is hidden by white balloons, and a DJ plays danceable music.

We sit and introductions are made. Rachel and I sit close, now and then pulling down balloons and writing on them as a way of passing notes and playing word games.

We strike up a conversation with a fellow who asks how long Rachel and I have been seeing each other. This is a recurring theme of the evening; in this crowd, it is more common to meet couples than fathers and daughters.

The chef brings out platters of meats and cheeses, and cabernet flows. There was never a check. Everyone is getting loose, including Rachel and me.

By the time champagne is poured at midnight, everyone is in high spirits and dancing. Samantha dances with us, and soon I am dancing with Samantha’s friend. She and I find a groove right away, and we lock into it.

Rachel flirted with a young hipster, but it went nowhere. Rachel thinks she blundered in saying that I was her dad. “The gay guy is your dad?” he asked.

By this time, I was dancing with this cute black boy who had been following Rachel and me around all night.

That’s him, Rachel said. “You must be way young,” the boy averred. “Wild.” But he declined to dance with her. Rachel joined my new pal and I on the dance floor.

I am reasonably certain that the boy took my phone number, but Rachel assures me I did not make out with him.

Rachel also caught the eye of a well-dressed Jude Law look-alike, but that ended when another woman walked up and put her tongue in his mouth. “It was very nice to meet you Rachel,” he said, as the interloper lured him away.

Someone decides it’s time to go. Samantha takes us outside and puts us in a cab. “Samantha is so sweet to us,” I say to Rachel.

I say this a few times.

We are home and in bed by four a.m. Happy New Year.