The plan
There were designs for the evening but your party came up extemporaneously and they were
forgotten. You mentioned your party as we were discussing something else entirely; you
interrupted the train of thought. ‘There’s a party tonight,’ you said. ‘Whose is it?’ we asked. You
looked to the ceiling. We wondered what this look connoted. ‘It’s mine. I’m throwing it,’ you said,
finally. We puzzled aloud, as politely as we could, as to why we weren’t invited. ‘It was a sort of
late notice thing,’ you replied. We asked where the party would be. ‘Isn’t your place being
repainted?’ ‘I’m throwing it at my sister’s,’ you said. ‘And we’re definitely invited?’ we asked. ‘We
wouldn’t want to intrude.’ You waved us away, made a face that seemed to say, don’t be
ridiculous.
‘Come what may, I will have a good time tonight,’ you said. We glanced at each other. We
decided then to attend your party. We each repaired to our separate stations in the bathroom.
We assembled ourselves. In our respective sections of the mirror, we rouged and blonded. ‘Do
you know who will be there tonight, at this party of yours?’ we asked. ‘The usuals,’ you replied.
Your lips strained under your drying lipstick as you said this. They cracked; they grew age lines,
like old soap. We nodded. Our mouths drew apart, unconsciously, as we held the mascara aloft,
tugged at by invisible strings.
Who can really tell if a party will get on well with itself. We each had our qualms. We wondered
at the groupings, the friends you had mentioned. We rearranged them, mentally; we imagined
how they would interact. We asked after the ones we didn’t know. You gave us quick, neat
characterisations. ‘He is such a charmer,’ you said. ‘And you’ll get along well with her.’ We
opened the fridge knowingly. We asked if there would be drinks at your party. We wondered if
we needed to pick something up. You tried to wave us away again; you made the same face as
before. We saw sweat bead on your beiged brow. We decided to give you clearance. We
entered our rooms and selected our dresses. None of them were contemporary; we lacked the
money to update our collections. ‘This was unexpected,’ we remarked. We bemoaned the
change of plans. As we dressed, there were readjustments, frustrated tugs.
Eventually we were outfitted and we left our chambers. We each evidenced ourselves, first to
each other, then to you. You sat in the lounge room with your phone and your e-cigarette. You
were calling someone—your sister, we presumed. We wore long, tight dresses in primary
colours. You glanced over at us and smiled. ‘I just want to make sure no one gets locked in
there, like last time,’ you said to your phone. We arrayed ourselves on the opposite couch,
expectantly. You looked down at your phone and tapped at it. Without looking up, you said,
‘Apparently there’s bubbly there.’ We shuffled our tan-stockinged feet in acknowledgement. We
had brought our shoes with us; they knocked on the hardwood. They seemed so clumsy when
unworn. They each shone with a lipsticky brightness, reflecting the harsh light of the kitchen. We
strapped and fastened the leather. ‘He’s three minutes away,’ you said.
We stared at the vanity, making to collect our necessary effects. We pulled open
drawers, our fingers worrying at the clutter. We drew up loose lipsticks, mint tins, beige-dusted
cotton wool. We wondered, was this or that needed? Was it essential? Could that be forgone?
‘Two minutes,’ you said. We began scooping indiscriminately; we poured all the junk of the
vanity into our bags. We needed to pee, each of us, but there was ‘no time,’ you said. We
queued, promising to be quick. Our assurances were cut short by the slamming of the door. You
waited downstairs, we assumed. We completed our ablutions. One after the other, we departed
the bathroom and made for the front door. Then only I was left; I sat twistedly on the toilet, my
underwear suspended, pulled taut between my legs. Through the bathroom window, I watched
as you all climbed into the car. I watched as you all drove away.