I’m with a group of people and one woman is a social pariah. . .butterfly, social butterfly. Words and phrases have the ability to confuse me.
I’m sitting far enough away that I can only hear what she says in a low roar. Like the slow, rolling sound your stomach makes just before diarrhea explodes. Except, by the expression of the listeners, she was much more discomforting.
I know sooner or later she’s going to make her way to me. So I start to think about the conversations she’s having as she flits her way around the room as if it was a human maze.
Maybe she’s telling them humorous stories from her day as third trombonist in the philharmonic of Schenectady. Maybe tales from her challenging days as the travel agent for Doctors Without Borders. Maybe chilling yarns from her time spent doing battle in the pie fight club circuit.
I can see the number of people she hasn’t spoken to dwindle. I also watch as a couple near me grabs their gear to leave.
“Gutless twits.” I mutter under my breath. “You ate the meal but now you’re afraid to pay for it.” I’ll see them again. And I’ll tell them a story. Maybe the one where I had to cut a piece of glass out of my own face. Yeah, that one always makes people shudder. I make a note.
“Hi, how’s your evening going?”
“No. . .
“. . .Great.”
And then she’s off.
Her words to me covered a few areas but, after a time, began to clearly focus on one specific area.
“I’d really love to get married.”
I know that because I know know 1) exactly how her wedding will look, feel, and taste. I came away from this with a warning to weather.
“Hey, Weather! Your old pal, Chris, here. Listen, buddy, see this woman? If she ever gets married DO NOT fuck up her day. 75, 78 degrees. Light cool breeze. Bright sunny day with a few fluffy clouds so the outdoor pictures come out perfect. And I’m not joking. You fuck up her day it’s the last time Doppler will see you alive.”
After hearing about the wedding, the location of the honeymoon, and what the husband to be will (not might or would be nice SHALL) look like she says,
“So, you can see I’d really like to be married.”
She stops for a second, I think to tighten the screws in her jaw for the next person, so I jump in with,
“You’ll never get married.”
I know! Am I crazy? Brave? Or finished my beer, want another one so need to come up with something that will cause her so much internal, how shall we say, melting that the unspoken to party guests will lift me and carry me around the entire party on their shoulders while the rest will rain cocktail wieners down upon me as offerings for silencing the beast.
After my momentary revelry I come back to shark black eyes glaring at me.
“Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because you’d never shut the fuck up enough to let him get the ‘I do’ in.”
And with that I rejoin my people so they can worship me in their respective manners.