Saturday's Storyteller: "Nothing would ruin my perfect evening. Nothing, that is, except her."
by Belinda Roddie
Nothing would ruin my perfect evening. Nothing, that is, except her. I could plot out the scene in my head, as I nestled myself in the corner of the room with my girlfriend's porcelain head placed between my shoulder and my glass of Merlot. The blueprint spreading out on the cerebral table, lines of strategy being scribbled above wrinkles of gray matter.
It would all be so deliciously dramatic. She would waltz into the lit up apartment, sweeping aside a strand of decorative lights and the cheap streamers set up for Paul's birthday. She'd be wearing one of the many cocktail dresses lined up in her closet - black, most likely - with full, pink lips pursed and swollen like balloons struggling to escape from their fleshy prisons. And her hair? Tied back, of course, with a few lonely wisps of her locks embroidering her bony cheeks.
The chatter would die down. The laughter would dissipate. The music blaring from the iPod speakers would continue, never intimidated, until Paul with a shaking finger would press the pause button. He would look at me, then at her, then back at me, then back at her. Nothing but air between the two of us since there were only six or so of us gathered. The bowl of chips would be forgotten at the center table. The guacamole, too. The store bought kind. That I had brought myself.
The tapestries of adulterous history, never quite forgotten. They would be presented to us again, all silvery but stained, never quite stashed away properly. To summarize that history, let me give you a simple equation: Jaded girlfriend + me = cheating on poor little Paul to the nth power. Poor little Paul who simply wanted to pump up his paycheck so the two could find a better place to live.
But Paul wouldn't say anything to me. Not a thing. Instead, he'd smile nervously and giggle, his hand streaking the back of his greasy head where his red locks lie uncombed. And he'd ask the typical question sans the appropriate profanity. If it were me, I'd simply blurt out, "What the fuck are you doing here?" but Paul was always the more polite one.
She wouldn't reply. Instead, she would sashay to the kitchen counter where the bottles were collected. She'd pour a glass of vodka and mix it with something sweet and stick a cherry on top of too much ice. She'd gulp it down - slurping, as she always did - and lick her lips attempting to be tantalizing. When really, it would just look like she was in dire need of some lip gloss.
Paul would approach her, eyes insisting an answer. I'd want to leave, but my girlfriend would hinder me, and she'd look at me with curious and cliché doe eyes. The same old wonder. "What's going on? Who's she? What's she doing here? Why can't you understand my non-verbal questions?" Thank God I wasn't with her during the great episode of soap operatic stupid.
Back to the scene. Paul and the unexpected guest would lock eyes. She'd smile. Point at me silently. She was never one for talking, more for...well, you get it. And then everyone would turn to look at me. And I'd laugh and shake my head, acting all innocent. Maybe I would try to change the subject and ask if anyone wanted cake. Or to take shots. Or maybe I'd get up myself and grab her and slam her sorry skull into the sink over and over and over -
Okay, no. No violent twist. Not part of the blueprint. Ah, well. You know the drill. Lots of confrontation and what not, old wounds re-opened. Paul knew very well what had happened. He had forgiven me, provided that she wouldn't re-enter our lives and screw it all up. That wasn't his specific ultimatum, merely the way the universe functioned. I could only hope she wouldn't come. I could only hope.
"Hey, Paul?"
"Hey, buddy. You having a good time?"
"Sure. Um...Claudia wasn't invited, was she?"
"...Claudia?"
"Yeah."
"...The Hell made you think of her?"
"I dunno. ...You're not still mad at me, are you?"
"Me? Nah. You were a dick, sure, but I'm okay."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"What if she turned up, though? Like, at this party?"
"...You haven't been hypothesizing again, have you, Tom?"
"Well, wouldn't you want to make sure she didn't ruin your night? I mean, what would you think would happen if she showed up?"
"Oh, boy. Well...it'd be deliciously dramatic. She'd waltz into the lit up apartment..."
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
Nothing would ruin my perfect evening. Nothing, that is, except her. I could plot out the scene in my head, as I nestled myself in the corner of the room with my girlfriend's porcelain head placed between my shoulder and my glass of Merlot. The blueprint spreading out on the cerebral table, lines of strategy being scribbled above wrinkles of gray matter.
It would all be so deliciously dramatic. She would waltz into the lit up apartment, sweeping aside a strand of decorative lights and the cheap streamers set up for Paul's birthday. She'd be wearing one of the many cocktail dresses lined up in her closet - black, most likely - with full, pink lips pursed and swollen like balloons struggling to escape from their fleshy prisons. And her hair? Tied back, of course, with a few lonely wisps of her locks embroidering her bony cheeks.
The chatter would die down. The laughter would dissipate. The music blaring from the iPod speakers would continue, never intimidated, until Paul with a shaking finger would press the pause button. He would look at me, then at her, then back at me, then back at her. Nothing but air between the two of us since there were only six or so of us gathered. The bowl of chips would be forgotten at the center table. The guacamole, too. The store bought kind. That I had brought myself.
The tapestries of adulterous history, never quite forgotten. They would be presented to us again, all silvery but stained, never quite stashed away properly. To summarize that history, let me give you a simple equation: Jaded girlfriend + me = cheating on poor little Paul to the nth power. Poor little Paul who simply wanted to pump up his paycheck so the two could find a better place to live.
But Paul wouldn't say anything to me. Not a thing. Instead, he'd smile nervously and giggle, his hand streaking the back of his greasy head where his red locks lie uncombed. And he'd ask the typical question sans the appropriate profanity. If it were me, I'd simply blurt out, "What the fuck are you doing here?" but Paul was always the more polite one.
She wouldn't reply. Instead, she would sashay to the kitchen counter where the bottles were collected. She'd pour a glass of vodka and mix it with something sweet and stick a cherry on top of too much ice. She'd gulp it down - slurping, as she always did - and lick her lips attempting to be tantalizing. When really, it would just look like she was in dire need of some lip gloss.
Paul would approach her, eyes insisting an answer. I'd want to leave, but my girlfriend would hinder me, and she'd look at me with curious and cliché doe eyes. The same old wonder. "What's going on? Who's she? What's she doing here? Why can't you understand my non-verbal questions?" Thank God I wasn't with her during the great episode of soap operatic stupid.
Back to the scene. Paul and the unexpected guest would lock eyes. She'd smile. Point at me silently. She was never one for talking, more for...well, you get it. And then everyone would turn to look at me. And I'd laugh and shake my head, acting all innocent. Maybe I would try to change the subject and ask if anyone wanted cake. Or to take shots. Or maybe I'd get up myself and grab her and slam her sorry skull into the sink over and over and over -
Okay, no. No violent twist. Not part of the blueprint. Ah, well. You know the drill. Lots of confrontation and what not, old wounds re-opened. Paul knew very well what had happened. He had forgiven me, provided that she wouldn't re-enter our lives and screw it all up. That wasn't his specific ultimatum, merely the way the universe functioned. I could only hope she wouldn't come. I could only hope.
"Hey, Paul?"
"Hey, buddy. You having a good time?"
"Sure. Um...Claudia wasn't invited, was she?"
"...Claudia?"
"Yeah."
"...The Hell made you think of her?"
"I dunno. ...You're not still mad at me, are you?"
"Me? Nah. You were a dick, sure, but I'm okay."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"What if she turned up, though? Like, at this party?"
"...You haven't been hypothesizing again, have you, Tom?"
"Well, wouldn't you want to make sure she didn't ruin your night? I mean, what would you think would happen if she showed up?"
"Oh, boy. Well...it'd be deliciously dramatic. She'd waltz into the lit up apartment..."
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
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