Champagne corks popped, releasing liters of the fizzy drink, the pride of the Russian free-market economy. Drops, large and small, dripped down the exposed breasts of girls in evening gowns. A multitude of bright bursts illuminated their faces from all sides, allowing me to better immerse myself in the atmosphere, hugging them, exchanging New Year's greetings, and kissing them on the lips. I savored the sweet taste of alcohol served directly from mouth to mouth. As the noise slowly subsided, the guests began to descend from the balcony. I was slowly left alone, the bottle in my right hand. I took a long swig to quench my thirst. In the room, I approached a group of people I'd recently met and joined the conversation. It was quite amusing; the girls I'd been hugging earlier turned out to be very talkative. A tall brunette with blue eyes pulled me into the center of the room, wanting to dance the twist with me. I agreed; words were unnecessary. I admired how her blue dress spun, expanding and contracting in diameter. A vomit flew down, missing the center of the toilet bowl. Another vomit shot through the air, grazing the wall, leaving me to admire another Picasso work. The resulting installation was impressive in its richness of vibrant colors.
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