Travis was telling me about the tarot cards he was making, when someone tossed a handful of bottle rockets into the air and broadsided his monologue.
You could hear the wicks sizzle as they twirled. A commotion arose from the group around us, a wandering scrum of rooftop silhouettes set against the backdrop of night sky. Someone knocked a wine bottle off the ledge, sending it rolling down the pitched part of the roof into the courtyard below, where it crashed just as one of the bottle rockets ignited and shot back toward us. Travis moved away, but there was nowhere to go; we were standing at the edge of the roof. Shit, he said, sighing as the rest of the rockets rained down around us.