Category Life
Published April 9, 2025
The Fire Bird: a Russian Fairy Tale, by Edmund Dulac
It was April 2021; springtime was peeling away the last bits of winter, unravelling new leaves and warm light. We were restless, hungry to experience life again after a year spent locked indoors, playing hooky in the quiet of northern California. I felt safe within the grasp of mask mandates and weekly saliva tests, but cabin fever had settled into my bones. I was twenty years old, studying design at UC Davis—a small agricultural college town distinguishable by its comically large bike lanes, strong liberal presence, and the unmistakable scent of cow shit (yes, cow shit) that lingered ever so often. The same handful of bars and parking garage served as the setting for every memory made after dark. It was the kind of place where everyone knew each other, which was equal parts comforting and inconvenient, depending on whether or not you were trying to keep a secret.
My three roommates were assembled through necessity—strangers met through a Facebook housing group. Katie, in particular, was the one I grew closest to. With tanned skin from a lifetime in California, blonde hair, and green eyes—she was, in every way, my polar opposite. We spent the days in our West Village apartment, Zoom lectures playing like white noise in separate rooms, coming together in the evenings to lay on each other’s beds, joints burning between our fingers as we waited for the world to open up again. And then, it did. Clutching our vaccination cards, we packed ourselves into my Nissan and sped toward San Francisco. Life felt hopeful again; Katie had taken the role of head of recruitment at her sorority, I had become a volunteer at the college radio station, hoping to have my own hour the following semester. Through the speakers blaring KAYTRANADA, I could hear her saying, “You know Cassey’s friend, Ginger, right? Her mom is a total freak. She’s one of those people who makes her kids sniff essential oils instead of giving them antibiotics. She’s pretty hot, though; she’s like this granola MILF.”
Granola MILF. A ridiculous phrase. The perfect DJ name?
To understand this story, you need to understand the boy. The prince, if you will. We met on Tinder years ago, before I even knew what I wanted from a person (I still don’t). He became someone I texted when I needed to buy weed. I would meet him in a parking lot or on his front porch, the awkward dance of small talk and transaction playing out between us. I barely spoke, too preoccupied with trying not to stare. I will also admit he was beautiful in a way that made me self-conscious. We kept in touch loosely, and when I learned he had moved to San Francisco for work, I reached out. Innocent. “We’re headed to the city this weekend.” He responded. “Not sure what we’re up to, but keep me posted.”
The plan was simple: catch a good buzz, soak in the rare sunshine that graced the city, and later head to a Silent Disco hosted by a mutual friend. The idea of a group of people dancing to music only they could hear intrigued me—and I’d never been one to back down from a good boogie.
We shook off the long drive at our friend Cassey’s cosy apartment in Richmond and immediately drowned ourselves in six lychee martinis. And then, another six. Time blurred. San Francisco tilted on its axis as we stumbled up and down the steep streets, causing absolute chaos. Golden hour led us to Fort Mason, a little meadow where the skyline kissed the water; people spread out in loose clusters, beers in hand, music vibrating from scattered speakers. We claimed a patch of grass and let the evening swallow us whole. Somewhere lost in the sauce, a man—scruffy, cartoonish in his oversized conductor’s hat—dropped to one knee and began sketching madly. Cassey took his hat off and placed it on her head— twirling around to the rhythm of the beat. I glanced down at his sketchpad and was shocked to see raw talent, his thick, almost arbitrary strokes creating a caricature of our friend in motion. He noticed me watching him and procured a few large prints for me to look at. His work was grainy and colourful, reminiscent of Art Deco. “It’s beautiful,” I commented. “You’re beautiful,” he retorted. He handed me a poster of a dark woman surfing in huge curly waves, a gift.
Pink Surfer Girl, by Harry Holiday
Darkness fell, and we peeled ourselves off the grass, retreating back to Cassey’s to get ready. That strange, liminal interlude between day drinking and night parties where exhaustion creeps in, and survival depends on sheer willpower. I fought off the invitation to sleep and somehow resisted Door-dashing a few Red Bulls. A few more girls joined us, and soon, we found ourselves trekking into a dense forest in search of the elusive, seemingly mythical, silent disco. Cassey, phone barely clinging to a signal, was screaming at a friend who had already arrived, arguing over who had botched the directions. “Are we lost?” I thought to myself.
Through the faint silhouettes of trees, we saw the flicker of colourful string lights. Shapes emerged—people draped in fur coats, lounging in the glow of some secret gathering. Seeing that there was nothing else but darkness around, we wandered in, meeting smiles lined with clenched jaws. We mingled briefly, and as I glanced around, I realised that everyone at this party was definitely over forty. “Is this the silent disco?” I asked a man draped in a leopard-print coat, each spot glowing in a different colour.
He smiled at me. “Does it look like a silent disco?”
I spun in place, finally noticing—no one was wearing headphones. “We’re all doctors,” he continued, “but you can call me the Love Doctor.”
We left before we could be diagnosed.
After tripping over a few more branches and briefly considering throwing myself down one of the hills– we finally found it. A clearing tucked between the trees, a makeshift dance floor of pine needles and scattered logs. Cassey’s friend offered something small and promising, and we swallowed it down without hesitation. The host handed us our headphones, and the world split into channels—old-school hip hop (shoutout Mac Dre), deep house, early 2000s pop. I flipped through them, each new beat sending electricity through my veins. A warmth spread through my arms and legs. My skin hummed.
We flail around for an innumerable amount of time, shouting over our headphones which station to choose. My legs give out eventually, and I find myself sitting on a log, letting my mind choose whatever thought passes, my breathing shallow.
And then—him! The aforementioned prince. A shadow cutting through the trees, familiar but unexpected. I hadn’t told him where we were. Honestly, I’d completely forgotten we’d even spoken that day. I jumped up, hoping he didn’t just witness me completely dissociating from reality. I wrap my arms around him; I’m suddenly so happy he came. I really was.
He looked around. “I saw your Snapchat location,” he explained. “I jog here sometimes.”
An hour or so slipped away, jumping around, playing with the dial of the headphones like children with a new toy. My energy still peaking, I grabbed his hand when we stumbled into an Uber back to Cassey’s. We collapsed onto the floor, fast food spread out in front of us. I had no desire to eat, my mind still swimming through the forest.
“Honestly, the drugs have worn off,” he announced abruptly, standing up. “I think I’ll head out.”
I followed him to the door. “I’ll walk you out.”
We stood there at the stairwell, no more words left to fill the space between us. I stared up at him, hoping he would move first. He did. His hands on my face, his lips pressed to mine. Admitting it feels like treason, but in that moment, it was a fairytale. Pure, electric, raw. I pulled away, smiled to myself, and turned to go inside.
I could write about the disappointment that followed. The ways he would let me down throughout the years and the way I kept coming back for more. But I won’t. I’ll keep the memory sweet—the lychee martinis, the cool evening air, the music beating through me like a second heartbeat. The gift from the conductor still hangs over my bookshelf, a print of a woman riding waves, wild and magical. A little souvenir reminding me of a time when so little things mattered to me, where I could go to strange places and feel we were always meant to be together.
