Friends have all gone home

Party's over, goodbyes to apartment made. Goodbyes and hellos in cases: have been a lousy hostess.

Now just me and it, or her.

Trying to fall asleep last night (but really replaying party in head), decided my apartment is a she: elegant lady, of a certain age, blah blah , (likes an impromptu picnic, partial to Rilke, dabbles in tarot and shells, drinks vodka neat, gherkins from the jar and is an above-average watercolorist).

So, she and I have 6 days (little less as I procrastinate), to say our own goodbyes.

Party went well in that it went. Friends showed, mingled well, ate food, drank (though kept the lousy wine hidden too long, so it moves with me). No one to be carried out, each a shining example of good friends behaving winningly.

I find throwing parties exhilirating but stressful, and their trajectory - from loping start to final flurry - a mysterious blur. Like this one-woman blog, feels like one's operating in a few too many rooms and segueing gracefully between one and the other makes a series of transitions.

Anyway. Clean-up done last night so ahead: mover's arrival Thursday at 9am and buyer's first step through door-as-owner Monday evening. Between 2 thens, and my now at the kitchen table, just me and a very full apartment.

C, whistful and daunted