Sparkle

He sits in the corner of a gathering. It is not a party with cigarettes burning holes in the carpet, not a mad house with CDs and tiny Venetian glass candies being inserted into purses or pockets and backpacks. It is not an intimate gathering wherein the host has spent two solid afternoons agonizing the placement of each of the eight guests at a dinner table either ostentatiously center-pieced, or stark naked and bare leaving to chance conversation to replace what ought to be. This is a room where 15 people gather, coddled inside of eggshell-white walls and subtle lighting. He sits on the ottoman, black leather with stainless steel legs, framed by two windows with remarkably clean mini blinds, slats pointing up so upper level floors can’t spy these on-goings. The room is decorated somewhat tastefully—meaning a conspicuous absence of bleaching halogen torchières. He talks against his will to a Stacy whose voice will alternate heavily between whispers and shrill shre wish laughter as secrets, then “punch” lines are both spewed forth like water from a fire hydrant obliterating any possible commentary or mutual exchange. A verbal accident one can’t help but stare at for the sheer majesty of torment.

I enter the foyer of the apartment complex, get into the elevator, press five. I take off my black leather coat and unwind the black scarf from my neck, pass a hand over my face absently to remove any cashmere trailings left on my stubble. I notice myself as a quick black shadow in the common property mirror. I have not shaved tonight, done my eyes, my lips, or skin before coming here; it is my silent protest against this evening, which to me will feel like a pity party. After weeks of a reclusive existence concerned callers have dragged me out of my winter shell to “meet some people”—all of whom are conveniently located in 5B. The elevator doors open and I smell nachos and popcorn covering—slightly—the smell of musty towels and winter wetted carpet. I tilt my head upward, then feel the hallway light highlighting first the curve of my hair, the shine of my eyelids, my cheekbones, then my progressively prominent jowls. I turn my head and knock.

“Hey! You’re here! Great! I was worried you wouldn’t come! In in in, get in here!” and suddenly the brick wall of “oh shit” vainly attempts to separate me, wall me out, bleach me into the wallpaper, but I’m left as a highly visible brown stain. “Yeah, I said I’d come” cue fake smile “tah dah…” and get dragged into the room.

“Jesus Christ” I mutter to myself as my face lights up and I exclaim “Annie, how great to see you again, and there’s Peter! Really? In three months? Wow! How exciting to be starting a new family!” I tilt my head to one side and smile with my mouth turning down as I always do when happy straggot couples bombard me with wonderful news of their wonderful togetherness. I mock interest, and sustain an internal lockdown on the continual woe-is-pathetic-anti-social-jaded-bitter me speech replay which no longer itches to leap out of my mouth. My own internal speech has ceased to be interested enough in me to do so.

I see a couple standing in the kitchen doorway outlined by stark florescent light who look at me suspiciously. They have no idea who I am, and observably engage themselves in scrutiny. She begins whispering through clenched smiles always associated when forming first impressions. I have no energy to go over to talk to them. I look at her; her hair is streaked with blonde, she wears open-toed shoes with fuchsia nail polish, a black knee length skirt purchased before the onset of her saddlebags, a fuchsia halter top, and a black pea coat. As she shivers her brown lipsticked lips quiver against her sun-stained face. My final analysis is amazement that she is here; after all, there must be some fascinating reality TV show she’s missing. I look at her boyfriend wearing a pale grey sweatshirt with PACKERS blocked across the front, blue jeans worn carelessly, the cuffs pooling around his brown leather hiking boots. Both are stained with salt. He clutches a beer by its throa t and holds it securely by his crotch, other hand in pocket. He rocks every once in a while on the balls of his feet, creating an image of a ballerina with a pasty white gut and black threads of hair emerging out of a pink tutu. I remind myself to use that in a story, but will forget by the time I return home.

Next to them, by the hall toward the bedrooms, a pale blond man wearing a baseball cap turned backwards extends his left arm over the shoulder of a woman, pinning her personal space uncomfortably against the wall. He wears a tank top undershirt, revealing things better left unseen; scrawny arms, a scant smattering of brown pit hair, a green tattoo across where a bicep should be. It is composed of letters but spells nothing. His eyes are slower than the rest of his inebriated body, gradually focusing on his object of affection. She wears a purple silk skirt with black floral embroidery, a colour deep enough to complement her mane of brown hair framing her face. She is humoring him. Perhaps he is rich. Is anyone aware it’s winter outside?

Annie is still talking to me. She is wearing a moss green sweater, flattering on no one, punctuated with brown images of deer. I suddenly realize my contribution to our conversation has been a series of well-placed “uh-huhs.” She extends her hand toward my face then touches it; I jerk away a little too forcefully; she looks at me then says, “Silly, it’s just a piece of fuzz!” then shows me a black bit of cashmere. “Thank you” I say, my eyes shooting daggers at Aaron. “Ahem” he says, “uh…let me show you where to put your coat.” I make an excuse to Annie, vowing to return to her in a minute, praying vehemently for spontaneous human combustion. I just now notice Peter was standing next to Annie the entire time, and look at him apologetically, then smile. He is wearing a matching sweater.

Aaron leads me into a currently unused bedroom, lit only by the light of the party, his arm extended, demanding my coat. I hand it to him and the obligatory apologies begin; “Sorry about Annie, she can be a bit talkative, yeah, and sorry I haven’t asked you over more often, but so glad I was able to catch you the other night.” He refers to last Friday. While I was staring at the TV—watching some rerun, I imagine—the phone rang in my hand, startling me such that I didn’t check the caller ID before answering. Aaron’s voice, characteristically unnaturally vivid, began speaking. I held the phone away from my face to look at the caller ID, saw A. Sorenson, then wished I never picked up. I hadn’t picked up the phone in weeks. My world ceased to exist outside what I had hung on my four walls, which incense I’d burned, what clothes lay scattered around.

“So what have you been doing?”
“Aaron, I really appreciate this, but honestly I don’t think I can…”
“Don’t be stupid, that’s what friends are for! Besides, I thought you might meet some interesting people here. Did you know Dan?”

I squint my eyes at the implication of this set up.

“Dan…?”
“The guy with that hot girl in the fuchsia top.”

My eyes relax.

“No, I don’t think I’ve met him before.”
“Really? He lives in your building. Oo, that’s the door.”

He left the room and I asked his exhaled breath “what makes you think I’ve been out of my apartment long enough to meet a neighbour?”

No one understands. So I’ll wait here a minute or so. There exists nothing in that room filling with sweating bodies worth noticing; no one worth making the struggle to talk to. I will wait here. No one will notice. I might sneak out that window, already opened to allow one or two molecules of air to circulate through the apartment. Outside, the street lights turn the world orange sherbet. I look down. Naturally I’m only five stories up. That is not what I’d intended. I’ve stood this way for months, staring out the window, soaking in the coldness of the world outside, imagining all the things going on without me. Nothing is waiting for me, of course, so I imagine the way my body will fall out the window, when I find one of appropriate height. I heard on the news that you can survive up to a five story fall. I live on the 6th. That’s too close to survival, and I hate failure—oddly enough.

The heavy weight I carry around sinks itself back into me. Using my eyebrows, I lift open my eyes. The only way out is through that room.

A Parliament. Yes. No one will mind if I smoke in here. It tastes like shit as all cigarettes do—we all know this—but for the time being it’s the action, it’s the inhale exhale, it’s the relaxation that comes not necessarily from the nicotine but from the deep breathing. It’s an order of yoga with a side of death. And I’m tired, so very tired, of having to suffer this way, of wanting to die but I can’t because I’m too fucking lazy to plan a way that I find fit.

And there he is. Flawless pale skin, soft ebony hair, eyebrows that beg to be kissed, and faint purple lips tight in their seductive fullness. “Mind if I join you?” he asks, and I say, “Not at all.” I hand him my lighter, looking only at his hands. I watch the flame enter the end of the cigarette, then blown full, the light of the flame blanching his face. He exhales upwards, his breath tousles the forelocks of his hair. I look at his belt buckle, fastening a pair of soft black pants, anchoring his protrusion—providing dual focal points. I can feel him looking at me while refreshing his mouth with vodka. I look out into the room and notice the negative space left where he once sat. I assume he tired of the deficient conversation lacking style, wit, drama. He stands closely enough that I am sure he would tell me all the details while snuggled on my chest tonight.

I turn my head, start to the bed, pick up my coat. He says, “where are you going?” but while I hear him I’ve turned off—I can’t muster the energy to say, “Home” so I say nothing and brush past him into the living room. I’m sure everyone is looking at me while I furtively match my steps with those already marred into the carpet. I finally reach the door, put my hand on it, and leave, feeling my way as the dizziness starts to overcome me. I put my finger on the down button and wait for the doors to rescue me. His voice calls out wait or stop or perhaps desist, but then the doors open and swallow me and shit me out the front door where I can go home and invent to myself what actually happened. It will make more sense this way.