A Rose in August

It's 1997. You woke up too early and stayed up too late. It was a beach party you crashed with your girlfriends, and now they're sleeping next to you. The thick floral duvet remains tucked on a bed that's still made, bodies strewn diagonally, thin blankets draped over legs, and you're still wearing that mini dress – but now there's a huge sweater over it, and you smell of cologne, bonfire, and sunscreen. In the mirror, you see your hair still looks pretty good from the front, but the back has transformed into some type of creature's nest. You patter downstairs and check the machine for messages as you make coffee, stopping to bury your face in the smell of the beans. Then you turn on the radio. Mariah Carey is playing, so you turn it up as loud as it will go and crawl back upstairs to wake the others. Soon you are all up and draped around the living room like cats on a hot day. Floral couches swallow your bodies, and coffee mugs sit half-drunk, getting cold. You plan this afternoon's menu: margaritas, so much fruit, and just about anything you can easily chuck on the grill. After some cringing and serious laughter over last night's retelling, it's time to get dressed and go to brunch. The bedroom becomes an explosion of pinks and florals, organza and cotton dresses draped over every corner, selections made, sunglasses combined with giant hats, Mary Janes, and flip-flops shoved on sandy feet as you will yourselves out the front door and into the Jetta. Today you'll do the whole thing all over again, as you have done over this last week: beach, rinse, eat, drink, repeat until every last drop of summer is squeezed out – like a sweet juice you'd seriously like to bottle.

This is August.

We celebrate the end of summer with this nostalgic drop