Saturday's Storyteller: "Misanthropy bubbled forth in effervescent wafts from every plastic flute; I could smell the poisons."

by Belinda Roddie

Misanthropy bubbled forth in effervescent wafts from every plastic flute; I could smell the poisons. I could taste the despair and cynicism from each sip. I mentally counted each pearl in my necklace and wondered why I was here. Why I still came to my father's New Year's galas, indulging in his cheap extravagance, imbibing the noise of disgruntled perspectives along with the crackling champagne.

My father stood in the corner, as usual, with his less arthritic hand propped against the top cushion of his blue easy chair, as usual. His other hand, though gnarled and curled, was stiff enough to grip his glass properly. He was conversing with one of his oldest friends - a business partner, a former CFO, and now one of the most successful investors in the country. They both sported white hair, both wore dentures, and both held a similar disdain for those "beneath" them. And amusingly enough, they both wore red blazers.

I myself had come in the gown that my mother had bought for me. She lived far away from my father's estate now, preferring to stay in her studio and paint the same landscapes and views of the pond over and over again. If it wasn't that, my mother focused on ceramics, letting the clay practically melt into her wrinkled hands as she molded each crease and divot as lovingly as her own skin. My father had never really done laborious work, yet he was the one with nearly non-functioning limbs. My mother, liking the simple life, had healthier hands than he ever did. And still she bought that dress for me.

"If you wear that, you will look like the only person at that party who has a soul," she told me over the phone, after I informed that I had received the package. "I remember those nights all too well. At first, it was romantic. Your father and I danced around the fountain while your grandmother looked on. I don't think water's flowed through that thing in years."

I knew what she was referring to. The old bronze fountain, the spigots bursting from the mouths of lions, was as dry as a metal desert. I remember it almost looking dusty on my sixteenth birthday. My father had forgotten to get me a cake, so I baked my own. He had never been the festive type, unless it was something he himself arranged for his interests alone. He forgot birthdays, anniversaries, Mother's Day, even Father's Day at times. Christmas, however, had always been over the top, with ice sculptures and dancers. The inheritance I would receive after my father's death, given that I was his only child, would be massive. And I was already thinking about I'd give it all away.

As the countdown began, I was only half-listening. I drank more champagne and felt it sink like a weight, rather than float, in my stomach. Next year, I wouldn't go back to this stupid party. I refused to. At least, I told myself that until Emilia, my father's friend's daughter, walked over to greet my old man, her hair silver-gold in the light. Suddenly, I was feeling bubbly again.

This week's prompt was provided by Beth Diesch.