When we leave the café, at half past eleven, we are all completely sober. High on an unhealthy dose of coffee, high on being young, and powerful, and daring, but otherwise sober.

Which is to say, perhaps not sober at all after all.

With a cleverly programmed smartphone, we take photos in front of the café, smiling, shouting, singing. Young, and wild, and free. Perhaps too free.

While we take these photos, I make mistakes. I slip. I behave in a way that I regret. Not because it didn’t mirror how I felt, not because I was wrong; but because I shouldn’t have gone about these feelings that way. Because I was in the wrong. It’s a knowledge that’s a shadow on my memories, even twenty years later.

But at that moment, it doesn’t seem to matter. It will, later, no doubt, but not tonight.

Tonight, we’re insouciant, and everything is merry as merry goes.

SCREAMING into the night —not pointlessly, but as always, with someone to take a picture.

A triangle of friends, talking about who remembers what, in front of a deserted, space-themed kids park. All very usual.

Laughter under the cherry blossoms.

The night air is soft and sweet with the smell of petals. Some distance away, the crashing of waves, not as loud or powerful as Brindleton Bay’s, but they bring the same breeze, the same cool weather. It’s a beautiful night.