Anne has been complaining recently because I "always write about Lars" and never about her.
Last night, a bunch of us came together at a very special house to celebrate Lars' thesis defense. He still has a couple of papers to turn in, but his thesis defense went very well, and the bulk of the work is completed.
The food was excellent. We barbecued marinated chicken, trout, vegetables, and corn.
After the food was gone, we sat around eating ice cream soaked in rum and talking about rock climbing, physics, and computer electronics. We laughed a lot, which is normal.
We drove back to our apartment and dropped Lars--who hurt his right heel very badly last weekend--at the front door.
Anne and I parked the bus and walked back to the front door. Neither of us had a key.
We rang the intercom and got no response. We rang it again.
I looked down at the watermelon and the case of beer we had carried from the car.
"We've got rations," I laughed.
"I was the one who wanted to come home and go to bed," Anne said with a frown. We rang the intercom again.
I walked out from under the glass cover over the entrance so I could see our windows. The lights were on in Lars and Anne's room. I called, "Lars".
Anne set the beer down and said, "I'll drink a beer, you know? If we're going to be stuck out here. Want one?"
"Sure."
She twisted the tops off of two beers and handed me one. We clinked the bottles together.
"Prost."
We sat on the steps with the intercom ringing, drinking our beer and grinning.
Eventually, my brother woke up from a dead sleep and tossed us a key.
Eventually, we went inside where Anne found Lars in the shower, where my room was hot from the day's sun, where life drifted back to its normal rhythm.
But for the moment, we were trapped outside, at the mercy of the evening's strange humor, sitting on the steps and laughing at ourselves.
