The Cocktail Party

“Look, it tends to be something different with me. I tend to feel the attraction and then put a feeler out there. Like a signal or something, a gesture, like ‘I know that you know that I know kind of thing’; a look, or a shrug of the shoulder. And there’s a way, if you catch my eye, that I can see the twinkle of recognition. That’s the hook. That’s the moment that I know it’s just a matter of time before I reel you in. So I kind of bait these hooks, I catch myself doing it; I just bait the hooks and cast them out and wait. Sometimes it works immediately, and sometimes it can take years. But once that hook is out there, I always get my mark.”

“What’s the challenge?” I said running a ring around the top of my wine glass, my own hook I suppose the ‘soft finger working a circle’ hook. “What’s the challenge if you know it works so well? You come off as a guy that knows it works well, so like while you’re working me, like now, like having this conversation with me, you’re working me now, this is a flirtation, right? So if you know you’re going to get me anyway. Like why all the set up. Why not just ask? ”

He lowers his eye lids, blinks, but does not answer. Not trapped. Not the response of someone cornered. He’s taking his time. He’s working. He’s working me.

“So you’re working me, and in a way it’s working,” of course I can’t stop, I’m on a roll now, “I’m flattered. You’re handsome, there’s been this thing, you’re right about it, that’s been there between us for a while, dormant and then in bloom and then dormant again.” I’m thinking about narcissus now, the flowers, and then the myth and then this man, this impossible man, another impossible man playing with me, knowing that this is going absolutely nowhere.

He sees my eyes flicker or my attention wane or something I can’t exactly figure out but his instincts are sharp and he pounces.

“Like when we argue, over politics, or art – you’re so fucking opinionated for a woman. You’re so ready to fight. It’s so refreshing and frustrating. Yeah so when we’re at it, it’s like we’re fucking don’t you think? A kind of verbal fuck, right there, right in front of everybody, you and me having it out.”

“You’re quite presumptuous.”

“Tell me it’s not true. Tell me the energy isn’t there.”

“That’s not the point!”

“God, then what is the point Stella? You can pretend all you want, but you do it too. We’re the same you and I.”

“Yeah whatever I’m sick of being like you.” And I leave walking off toward a table of hors d’ouvres.

“I saw you taking with Jerry,” this is my husband circumnavigating the room meeting up with me at the shrimp cocktail. “Heated as usual? You guys should get a room.”

“Shut up Harry!” God, men I am so sick of men. I have no idea how I got so fascinated with them to begin with, they are a never ending source of complete frustration and misery. But oh are they cute!

Now I’m in the bathroom, fixing my make-up, not feeling particularly beautiful nor perfect, hating parties, hating myself at parties, wondering what the fuck I am wasting my time for, wondering what I would be doing at home. Maybe sitting with my dog and playing solitaire. I love solitaire. I love how hard it is to pull together a happy family.

I run into Rene’s husband. Joe. He is lurking as only Joe can do. “God, I’m awful at this.” I say to Joe. “I think I am too intense for the cocktail party set, I think I am too intense for everything. I think I am only OK at work where it is OK to be intense. God, give me a conference room and a flip chart and I am an animal, but a glass of chardonnay and a room full of acquaintances and I fall apart.”

“Yeah I was like that too,” says Joe, “until I realized that the best way to endure these things is to not say anything of any great value. Just more or less look interested but don’t volunteer much.”

“But then why come?” I ask in earnest. “Really is it worth the time and the anguish?” I realize now I am breaking his rule regarding intensity and value, but still, he seems like he has a clue.

“Adrienne likes it, she likes coming, she has a good time,” he says.

“Does she really? Or does she just say she does? Does she come home and do the play by play? Does she freak out over what she said to whom and who might not like it? Or does she gossip about what people said, I always worry that people gossip about me later. Or does she worry about drinking too much, has she found a way to pace herself?” clearly the whole intensity thing is lost on me.

“I dunno. Sometimes we talk about it and sometimes we don’t.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“Think about making it trivial,” says helpful Joe, “It really helps.”

Why bother! Is what I’m thinking. Why bother with the hair and the make up and the outfit and the heels, oh god the heels. Why bother with the drinking and the banter. I imagine when we were single it felt a bit like a mating ritual, but now we’re all paired up. So there’s really nothing to be gained.

Jerry again, in front of the cheese plate, “What are you drinking?”

Me, “Chardonnay. I’m trying to pace myself. I’m thinking of switching to something red, slow myself down.”

“Why?”

“Don’t want to get sloppy.”

“I love it when you get sloppy.”

Nice. Worst fear. My sloppiness is obvious.

“Fuck you Jerry.”

“You know I’m your biggest fan.”

“Whatever that means,” I don’t even want to know what that means. Like maybe someone else is not my fan. Like what does biggest mean in this context? Like what am I supposed to do with that.

“What am I supposed to do with that Jerry?”

He shrugs and walks across the room to his wife, cupping her ass as he looks over his shoulder at me. He is playing. Nothing is on the table. It’s his way.

“God that Jerry drives me crazy.” This is Amanda, my best friend. “What a slut. I don’t know how she deals with him.” this from a woman whose husband is a hound himself.

We are all hounds.