House Party

Thin grease black layer of wine on her lip, she wipes it off and it rolls like sediment on the back of her hand. Ink of drunkenness. The laughing that was in her has soaked away in the cool of the bathroom. She licks teeth that are stained and don’t look good. Head spins. Maybe a small pang of nausea. Squandered her Sunday for this. Wine never agreed with her.

I don't like doing this, she thinks. She goes back out. The spot she left to use the bathroom is still free, a hard and wart-lumped beanbag amongst a disarray of furniture. She blames the beanbag for getting her so drunk. She is tempted to go back to it. Was getting along with the people there. It was all light-hearted conversation, the meaning of Lord of the Rings, whether Dune counts as a fantasy saga (it does). But the conversation might already have changed, just enough that she'll sink into her not-talking, stew in weird quiet. Or it could stale out completely, and then there will be the strange frontier of wanting to leave but not wanting to be the first to leave. Then the illusion that she belongs here will be gone, and she will need to justify her actions, look busy, get another red cup of house sangria. The thought is sobering.

She goes out to the throng of people on the lawn, feels the ice-breath of winter dirt on her bare legs. It is always better when there’s a band, something to stare up into mindlessly, forget your worries until the set ends. Tonight there is no band. Sometimes she wishes she smoked, so she could puff and drag through awkward silences. There is always her phone, but no one is messaging her intensely enough to justify the slip-away, and she'd still feel the pulse-shroud of her present place and the need to not look like she doesn't actually know anyone there.