One of her favorite things was still drinking with old friends. It had changed so much, and yet–
It wasn’t the partners in a literal crime illicit drinking of their high school years, the ‘I trust you to not tell my parents’ comradely. It wasn’t the somehow felt mandatory parties of their college years, where they were never quite sure if they’d make it back to the dorms or end up in a huddled mass on a strangers couch, but they still knew to stick together no matter how drunk they got. It wasn’t even the melodramatic drinking of their early to mid-twenties, where every break up was met with best friends and a bottle of vodka, or every piece of good news meant a couple of bottles of champagne and probably less food than they should eat when drinking.
These days it was sitting around a kitchen table, alone in one house while the teenagers down the street watched the children to earn a bit of extra cash. It was drinking just enough wine to get pink in the cheeks and giggly while they told stories of spouses, exes, their adventures since they last met, and the plans for greater adventures ahead. They ate too much food and maybe laughed a little too loud, and every time she came home from one of those days, her husband always asked with a smile if he should be wary of what her friends knew about him now, to which she never gave a proper answer.
She knew that even though she was a “grown adult” she’d continue to out grow things—and maybe their drinking dates would change. But she knew she could never get tired or disappointed by drinking with old friends.