Quick preface, I found my jump drive from high school. I had totally forgotten about this story and am not sure where I was going with it. It is the study of one moment in 3 different points of view.
How
Could I?
Pretend I am interesting. Pretend
you’re engrossed in me, my eyes catching yours and hold you, pulling you toward
me like some siren on a rock, all glossy lips and flowing hair.
Watch me. You know you want too. You
have too. See the curve of my hips, dimples in my cheeks.
Now, look away, quickly, before she
catches you. Run your hand down her back, glossing over the hidden zipper but
stopping before you reach the tulle that surrounds her waist like cooled lava,
trapping her there.
Smile. She’s entertaining, twirling
fake hair around her fake fingers, whispering jokes in your ear for everyone to
see. And of course they do.
When she turns to speak to the
gentleman beside her (who immediately take this opportunity to glance into her
cleavage, pushed up high and proudly on display, like meat in a butcher shop)
take a sip of the champagne clutched in your other hand. It’ll give you a
headache later (it always does) but who truly cares?
Now,
should you risk glancing at me again? Perhaps no one will notice. You could
simply look up and casually survey the room before catching my eye again. We
could convey a lengthy conversation by simply batting our mutually full lashes
and pursing our perfectly formed lips.
You could do that.
Instead, you reach for your wife’s
hand, pull her away from the older gentleman who’s pacemaker is getting a
workout and lead her to the dance floor. Place the champagne flute down on a
table without her noticing; after all you’re not supposed to drink anymore.
Twirl her around. You both are
wonderful dancers.
How could you dare be anything else?
*
“Doris Ray is getting fat.” Amelia
says blankly, twirling a piece of hair around her long manicured finger.
“Darling, she’s pregnant,” Roger,
her husband replies, not bothering to look at her.
“Oh, that’s such a vile sight. I
don’t think people should be allowed out when they’re in her…condition.”
“Of course not.” He still doesn’t bother to look at her but
Amelia is used to that. They are not the staring in deep into the eyes kind of
couple. Once, someone said eyes were the windows to the soul but she doesn’t
agree. Eyes are the stairs to the basement, just a step down into things you
want to forget.
“Waiter, can I have another drink?”
Roger asks the strapping young man in the white dinner jacket who is passing by
with a tray. It is piled high with used napkins, empty lipstick marked glasses
and a few sad horderves. Amelia’s stomach rumbles at the sight of them, but she
doesn’t notice. She is not the eating sort of woman.
“You don’t need to drink dear.
Remember what the doctor said?” She reminds him, her voice light and lilting,
but at the same time adequately letting him know that she remembers exactly
what the doctor said. Something around the lines of, “Your husband is a drunk,
but a good drunk and a good man you’re lucky to have.”
“Yes, darling. Nix the drink, sir,”
Roger says to the waiter, while at the same time signaling him to go ahead and
bring the drink anyway.
Amelia closes her eyes.
How could she do anything else?
*
We entered the room, me navigating Amelia
like she's some show dog on parade. Her skirt rustles as we make our way down
the stairs and her fingernails cut into me, even though the arms of my coat.
She hates stairs, always has. Once when she was a child she fell down the set
in her parents’ home, breaking her collarbone. Even now she has a scar there,
small and curved, like a sickle.
"You're
doing fine." I whispered as we finally neared the last few steps.
