The Party
Paul took a long sip of his drink, almost choking on the vodka. Too strong. The others drank too. They were like men resting before the path became steeper, narrower, more slippery. Each seemed to be calling upon some reserve of strength - and they would need it. For Marjorie had left the party and with her so had all the light in the world.
Of course, Paul had already consigned himself to the potentiality of fucking the fat one - or even not fucking at all, though he doubted things would become so dire. He was sure the other two had gone through a similar logical process and concluded the same. The fat one wasn't all bad - a little plump, certainly, but shapely, flushed, with big tits pale and round as the moon. Like grapefruits hanging succulent under her tight little shirt.
However, no one had accounted for the possibility of both Marjorie and the fat one up and leaving the party. Where had they gone? Where were they going? It was their party, for Christ sake. Standing in the doorway the fat girl had assured them that they would be back, they would return - and Paul had looked up at Marjorie and she had said nothing, only smirked. Then the door was shut and they were gone.
The girls had left in their wake a catastrophe. The three lads left behind hardly knew one another. They were all here for the same purpose - of this Paul was sure - and now, these adversaries were forced to play at cordial politeness while they awaited the return of their prize. They sat in silence. It was awful.
At one point the room had been filled with music, gossip and loud, excited talk, but the party had properly concluded some two hours ago. The other revelers had gone home. Only these three young men and the two girls that they were pining for had remained. Each of the boys had been invited by Marjorie herself, and each figured that there could only be one reason for that. They had not suspected competition.
The apartment was dark. The sliding glass balcony doors were wet with yesterdays rain. The light of the street lamps outside lit the raindrops like little glass beads. The boys, seated variously on worn couches and torn leather chairs, tried to remain busy. Tinny music played out of a phone that had been placed in a bowl. Paul, as he so often did, spent the time thinking.
He regarded Howard as his chief competition. Howard was loud and well built and seemed somehow older then everyone else at the party. Paul wasn't sure what he studied, or if he was even a student anymore. He laughed a lot. He was seated in an old armchair and every once in a while took a long haul on his vape. The little light at its bottom lit up the thin clouds that curled around his head.
His other rival was Jeremy the computer science major. He would be no problem. He had spent the entire evening following Marjorie around like a lost dog. Even now with 5 cans of cider in him he stared down into his drink when he spoke.
Paul was restless. He pulled his phone from his pocket, checked for messages from Marjorie, saw none, returned it to its home and took a drink. He repeated this ritual every 3 minutes or so. He couldn't help himself. He had come to the party with one goal - to be with her. He felt no guilt in admitting this. It was the only reason he had showed up. His whole hope for the evening, the rise and fall of his emotions, all of it rested squarely on her. He cursed his own weakness and checked his phone again. He'd been thinking about this night all week. He'd gotten a message Monday night, uncapitalized, whimsically spelled: whatcha up to saturday paul? - and that had been enough.
All week he had imagined how the night might play out. He had imagined how she might dress - the light blue shirt with the frills? A simple white t shirt? How would he arrive? To whom and how would he speak? He played himself out this way all week, a character in his own drama. Of course he knew this to be decadent and silly and a total waste of his time, but he could not shake the indulgence. Always, the fantasy ended in the same way: he would make a move. Pleasantly drunk, he would lean in and kiss Marjorie lightly while they sat on her worn out old sofa. Or, filled with spirit, he would grab her mid sentence and kiss her passionately. Or even something as subtle as putting his arm around her - that was enough. All these visions appeared before his eyes, almost without his willing. He did not imagine the sex. There was no need.
But now - where had she gone? Was there somewhere better to be? More interesting? What had she to discuss so privately with her stupid fat friend - were they discussing who would fuck who? Working out the logistics? It was insulting. Leaving him alone with his competitors, embarrassed, knowing she had won. She had ruined the whole game.
"Where are they?" Paul said aloud, irritably.
There was silent for a minute besides the popping and spitting coil of Howard's vape.
"Who cares," said Howard finally, without looking up from his phone.
"They'll be back, don't worry," said Jeremy. He was sitting nearly upright, cradling his drink, glancing over his glasses shyly.
"They'll be back," he said again, his voice betraying his faith, and he blinked.
The implications of their absence was what bothered Paul. The implication of some "behind the scenes", something hidden. In his head he called Marjorie a bitch, though he would never say something like that aloud.
"Isn't it rude? Its their fucking party. We don't even know each other," he said.
"I don't mind hanging around with people I don't know," said Jeremy, "I don't mind waiting."
All evening Paul had hit on her just as he had imagined. He had been witty. She had laughed at his jokes. He was on fucking fire. He'd talked to her and her friends about his studying and his classes and he had made it funny. He'd made it interesting. They had listened to him. And while he regaled her friends with his tales, told them of the nonsense he faced in his department, he had watched Marjorie. She had noticed him. She'd noticed how funny and interesting he was. Her friends had noticed. And for a moment, after he'd said something really good she had looked up at him from under her cute brown bangs and he had seen something. Something in her big brown eyes. Something he'd sorely missed. Something he needed, desperately, a yearning that he could fulfill nowhere else. He knew she wanted him. Then why, why leave? Why now, when the choice was so clear?
"Relax a little, man," said Howard. "Do you want a hit on the vape?"
Paul thought for a minute.
"Sure, fuck it."
Howard handed him the little stick. It was a metal tube as long as his middle finger with a mouthpiece at the top and a little usb port on the bottom. Finding no button to press, he put it to his lips and inhaled. His mouth was filled with scented tundra berry vapors and the rush of nicotine traveled up his spine to the base of his skull. He followed this with a long drink and handed the vape back to Howard. Howard smiled.
Paul realised that he was drunk now, properly drunk, and he was mad. Finally the three boys got to talking, but Paul had become cynical and unpleasant. There was a sharpness in his speech that even he did not like. He drank more. Howard egged him on.
And then, as the fifth or sixth or seventh drink disappeared down his gullet Paul saw the door crack open a bit. The boys turned towards the door. Stood there, giggling, eyes bloodshot and half closed, were the girls. They did not make eye contact. Rather, they looked at one another and giggled even more and Paul took this as a personal insult. Still, the sight of them with the light of the hall outlining their figures, still it took his breath away and for this he cursed himself again.
They made their way in, the fat girl first. She sat opposite Paul in a torn leather armchair. Then came Marjorie. She walked with a grace strange for someone so stoned. She sat beside Howard.
The party continued as though it were normal. As though it were normal, thought Paul. They all talked and drank. Jeremy glanced about with pleading eyes, clearly hurt, and Howard spoke boisterously as he had before. Despite his victory there was no change in his manner. Paul watched his arm snake surreptitiously around Marjorie's back, fingers lightly gripping her thin ribs. He felt something rise the back of his throat and decided it was time for him to go home.
He said his goodbyes to everyone and Marjorie told him he had better come to her next party. "Bigger than this one, and better. We might even get a real speaker," and she laughed and Paul laughed too and it all rang hollow and dull and he was mad for even engaging her in this conversation at all. It was stupid because he knew he wouldn't be going to any of her parties after this and he felt stupid but he kept laughing anyway.
Paul left. He descended the creaking wooden stairs leading down from her apartment, nearly slipping on the water pooled in the worn wooden steps. The whole street was slick wet with spring showers. The puddles in the gutters shone with lamp light.
It was 2 am. Paul stumbled along the sidewalk, his eyes half closed. After walking for a little while he decided to take a break in a nearby park. The trees swayed side to side in the wind and Paul held his head between his hands so as to stop the spinning. It was dark. The bench was quite comfortable and for a brief moment he considered sleeping right there beneath the night sky, like some wandering vagabond.
Across the street Paul could barely see two figures walking arm in arm. They walked slowly and surely. Paul could hear laughter. As they passed under one of the quaint wrought iron streetlamps Paul was just able to make out their faces. It was Marjorie and Howard. As Paul looked on from his seat on the metal bench Marjorie grabbed at Howard's arm and pulled him down towards her, her eyes wide. She whispered something in his ear and Howard threw back his head and laughed.
