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It was December 24th, back in the 80s. The afternoon heat was so intense it made the trees sweat and melted the tar on the asphalt. While the streets were teeming with people running everywhere, the girls' house in Torcuato was getting ready for a party.

From midday, La Choco and La Melody were dusting and mopping the house floors, filling them with a rich floral and cologne scent. La Pocha had gotten up early that morning to make long, seemingly endless green and red garlands, which she then strung on thin wires across the patio. Beneath them, the record player played a strange mix of songs, from cumbias and Madonna to even Michael Jackson.

A small pine tree adorned with lights and colorful baubles beneath a window hinted at the party's theme. Two tables covered with tablecloths, laden with plates and glasses of varying sizes, awaited guests outside on a dance floor. To one side, four miniature trestles beneath two planks could potentially serve as seating.

It was already six in the afternoon. Mosquito, Marcela, and Pico, along with two guys from the neighborhood, were taking their last dips in the Reconquista before heading off to the party at Torcuato's house.

The river wasn't clean at all. There was no salt, no waves, no foam, but for them it was just like being on the shores of Mar del Plata. The best thing about the place was that hardly anyone went there; the main reason that guaranteed them a quiet afternoon, without prying eyes.

Carla Do Ponti had been traveling from Villa Rosa with shopping bags. The night before, she'd gone out with a client who, besides paying for her services, had given her some groceries: a chicken, two nougat bars, a sweet bread, a bottle of cider, and a little bit of candy. Carla accepted them, thinking it a very fitting gift to share with the girls on Christmas Eve. The bus she was on was packed. She concealed her powerful presence behind her dark glasses. Her fears were well-trained and tamed enough to navigate the crowds. She couldn't allow anyone to spoil the party that hadn't even begun.

Andrea and Yohana were coming from San Miguel. On the way, they stopped briefly at a fair to buy themselves some eye-catching outfits to wear that night. The shops were packed with people buying gifts. Some were celebrating a religious holiday; however, for the girls, it meant a night off from work. They didn't have money for gifts, nor any reason to buy them; they understood that no one at Torcuato's house would be celebrating a birthday that night. Besides, they had barely saved enough for the barbecue, a couple of beers, and a new outfit. It was a night where high heels and bold lipstick were essential, though this time they wouldn't be part of a work uniform because this was one of only two nights a year when they would all be taking the day off.

The sun began to fade and the sky turned orange, then it became a starry velvet blue.

It was nine o'clock at night and the last of the latecomers were arriving; although it was already dark, everyone came with sunny greetings. If you were nearby or lived near the house, you could appreciate that rich smell of smoke that wafted from the grill and climbed up the walls of Torcuato's patio.

Before the roast was cooked, someone knocked on the front door. It was the gay hairdresser, the daughter of the neighborhood newsstand owner, stopping by with her mother to say hello. They were carrying two bottles of cider, a sweet bread, and two cans of fruit salad. They placed them on the table, offered warm hugs and best wishes for prosperity, and then left.

It was 10:30 at night when La Melody was heard shouting, “Everyone come to the table, the food’s ready!” Carla yelled back, “A round of applause for the grill master!” Carla had her eye on the dark-haired guy the moment he arrived. Both the dark-haired guy and the other young men who came with the girls were those eternal casual flings that are always good to have around.

Dinner unfolded with excitement amidst anecdotes of rebellion, bedroom secrets, and the occasional passionate romp. Around the table sat these made-up girls, trying to cope with the disdain and the looming threat of adulthood. The hour they dreaded most was approaching. It was the hour that stirred within them a deep longing for embraces. It was the hour when the family photo album inevitably flashed through their minds, provoking an anxiety that plunges to the bottom of a glass of alcohol, then floats to the surface and vanishes like a piece of ice about to melt.

It was almost midnight. The tables started moving because the dancing was about to begin. Everything was going according to plan. Until suddenly, shouts from the street tried to break into the party: “The faggots are partying!” they yelled, others said, “If you don’t have money for fireworks, the transvestites will give you firecrackers.” Choco laughed and said, “Pocha, turn up the cumbia so we don’t hear the idiots out there. What’s important is what’s happening in here because our guests are shining with us.”

She finished speaking, raised a glass, paused for a few seconds, looked up at the sky, moved her lips, and said something silently. Then she looked at everyone and said: “ Let’s toast, comrades, because we are still alive. Let’s toast because today is Christmas Eve, and whoever wants to believe, let them believe, and for them I also say, they are waiting to hear it, Merry Christmas .