Table 10
10:38 PM.
Co-workers and friends of coworkers hover over her. Intern girl 1 sits to her right and intern girl 2 to her left. “your hair looks fine, wait lemme ruffle it a little’ says intern girl 1. “Promiscuous Girl” blares from the speakers. Intern girl 1 pulls her chair closer to her and ruffles intern girl 2’s hair. They mess each other’s tresses. she sits in the middle. they giggle away….
She is sipping diet coke from a stem glass.
Post Dinner.
11:42 PM.
The day stumbled into night rather abruptly.
She is slouching on the corner couch in one of those parties, where everybody, every single body is better than you. Where beautiful girls swirl around gracefully…drinking something (surely vintage) from champagne flutes….Blood red lips delicately talk about haute contour, European film directors, some London hot gig. Oohs and ahhs at just the right places; perfect inflections…each word uttered significant, relevant.
Manicured nails tap on table tops..blinding gems, designer labels, suits, pointy shoes, chicness walking around….posh accents puffing, moaning and sighing over politics, the legalization of gay marriage, soul food, trendy ashrams, religion…..
“Have you ever been to a masque…masquerade? “She asks the head of marketing and communications.
“No.” she says, eyeing intern girl 1—Her gaze, a wriggly serpent cascading down intern girl 1’s body…starting from her carefully ruffled hair to her painted toes….slithering around every crevice, curve and nook. “No. I haven’t.” she repeats still eyeing intern girl 1 like a vindictive scorned woman. But then she suddenly realizes that she is looking, recovers, looks at her and smiles with exquisitely bleached teeth.
“Okay. You look nice.” She says.
“I got this dress……” She stares at her lovely face as her voice becomes a muffled monotone…. She looks like one of those Picasso’s monumental women—big bones, wide pelvis…ideal for child bearing.. .And with the utmost grace she takes out a miniature perfume..she squints…”Joy” she sees , from her Prada handbag and with the hand movements of a dancer dabs a drop of it onto her pulse points. She extends her forearm….. offers her to take a whiff of her. She leans forward…her dancer hands brushes against her nose and her upper lip.
Some girl she can’t quite recognize finishes making a joint. Men and women who, despite their heights, always tower over you, sit around her, over her, on her lap…and take tokes.
The fragrance of Joy…swirling and blending in with smoke, liquor, mint, food and the echo of buzz words.
After midnight. Lounge.
Ravenous sleep washes over her. She takes off her heels…she gently rubs her soles. She pinches the ends of her toes. Massages her feet. She slowly places her feet on the soft, plush carpet…she sinks. Deep deep into the whiteness.
“what do you like about winter..snow?” she asks a man whose face is obliterated by the smoke.....or mist..she can’t tell.
Its so cold in here her breath steams.
“I haven’t noticed you before beautiful. The men’s room is a good place to talk about winter stories don’t you think… get warm, familiar?” says the man behind the smoke.
She slowly gets down from the couch.
sits on the floor….consumed by the softness of the carpet.
“its okay to give in to sleep.. To let it take over you” she whispers.
“you know, I get so wary of words…of everything… sometimes. “ she tells somebody..a silhouette, who is stroking her hair..her face…whispering “its okay baby, don’t be scared”.
She is lying in a fetal position—rocking a little to a music that’s blaring from the speakers…U2? She cant tell.
The silhouette is constantly reminding her that everything is going to be alright. She is wary. She feels the urge to tell him..umm her, she cant tell…that “amidst the chrome tinged chores and run of the mill humdrum, she is slowly drifting away from something important, vital...” But she just mumbles something incomprehensible instead that the silhouette is in no hurry to decipher. She tells the silhouette, “this place reeks of umm, remember that plasticky odor that new toys right off the box used to exude? Synthetic well ummm plasticky? Like baribie’s hair?” the silhouette just says its okay and everything’s fine and that she is beautiful…..
Its cold. The silhouettes hands are cold. Her mother has kept all the toys from her childhood. Her barbies..she has packed them in Styrofoam boxes and kept them is the storeroom….so that her children can play with them. the alarm will go off at 7. Her feet are throbbing with pain. High heels are bad for you……she is weeping.
9:30 AM the next morning.
She recalls
Smoke. Cold. Red lips. Joy. Silhouette. Sleep. Men’s room. White plush carpet. Someone she cant recognize, dropping her home. Barbies……
Her mother opens the door. Shards of sunshine seeping in, making kaleidoscopic patterns on her mother’s night dress..on her face. Her mother’s effortlessly beautiful face…in her eyes that tell you stories of yesteryears, a thousand battles….lost.
Her mother sits on her bed. She curls up, lies in a fetal position, next to her. She silently weeps. Her mother strokes her hair…and tells her everything is going to be alright.
