Matthieu's life was on the fast track to mediocrity. He was not the best at anything, yet he was not the worst, and that never changed. He arrived at Anthony's at 9:58 P.M. Ten times out of ten, Matthieu was precisely two minutes early. He was expecting to see all the familiar fifteen (the nickname of his friend group, unbeknownst to any of them besides Matthieu) as he routinely opened the grand oak door to his best friend's house, his gift in tow. While there were remnants and glimpses of recognized faces, he was mostly overwhelmed by the anxiety of approximately sixty strangers, each clearly avoiding sobreity. What the hell? It was barely 10:00 and Anthony's party was already close to out-of-hand, in Matthieu's modest opinion. The bass of Anthony's parents' speakers was trembling. The sound waves smashed against Matthieu's skull. The red cups and bottles and cans faded into a kaleidoscope-like mess. Uncomfortably surprised by these developments, he found himself gliding into the otherwise unnecessary sitting room. I need to sit down.

It's not like Matthieu was a socially incompetent recluse, he was just simply obsessed with the regularity of his life, to the point that change was anxiety-inducing. He was a guy who thrived off simplicity and pattern. He owned the same American Eagle flannel in five different colors. He also owned four sets of the same bed sheets. He had not changed his Facebook profile picture in two years.

In some odd way, the sitting room comforted him in a manner that words or gestures probably could not at that precise moment. But as the moment shifted, his attention shifted to the girl sitting about five feet across from him. It was...What's her name again?

"Errr...hi," his words fumbled like a bad pass, and he hoped she did not know his name either.

"Hi! You're Matthieu Depaul, right? I'm Natalie Sterling. I think we might have had Spanish together or something Freshman year? Maybe?"

Matthieu searched for ways to seem casual, but his efforts were to no avail. He twiddled with his blistered thumbs and wondered, How was she so comfortable talking to me? She doesn't even seem drunk. What am I supposed to say now? Who am I? What is life?

Her eyes sparkled with genuine interest and curiosity. Her mouth was slightly a jar with an anticipating smile.

Simultaneously, he was panicked and comforted by her ease. He replied, "Yeah. And you're....*oh God, oh God, oh God* Nat-uh-lieee?"

"Yep, that's me!", flashing a toothpaste commercial-worthy smile.

As they sat in some sort of strange, comfortable silence, a question occurred to Matthieu. "What are you doing here?" he asked bluntly. This was unusual for him. The sensation of direct communication felt like a jacket that was about a size too big for him, a little weird , but he would grow into it. What is happening to me? Did I forget to take my common sense meds this morning?

She pondered. She did not know Matthieu at all. "Well, I could ask you the same thing."