Arctic house party

Thick Italian songs bleed through the walls, out the open window, replaced by soft sunlight glinting off tiny mason jars half full with red wine.
They dance with their gin and tonics, flowing. The women confident, exotic, oblivious, accented: French, German, Italian. The men, sun-bleached with weathered faces and young eyes, keep their balding heads uncovered. All of them moving and removing layers, laughing easy.
On the roof, the sun shines in our faces and finds all of our pale spots and we smile at it, at each other.
On the road below an RCMP van rounds a bend, fading into the distance. Beyond wait the new waters of Boot Lake, just free of their familiar ice.
"The night is a fetus" that won't begin and so it never ends. We are on top at the top of the world.
The cool wind tips a forgotten jar of gin, rolling it over unmoved shingles, down, down, strawberry and lime spinning inside. Down, down, down - don't chase it! A red halve slips out just in time, stuck at the edge. And then the sound is so small.