LOST ON A SUNDAY

Sipping on fine wine. It was dry; the way I like it.
The music had faded, but I watched as everyone danced to their own beat. A collective host of misery.
My dress slid off my shoulders with each sip, and I tried to be as multifaceted as I could, navigating hand to mouth while using my fingers to guide each strap, trying endlessly to remain intact.
I slid my hair back and tilted my shoulders in the same direction.
I thought to myself, No one likes a sloucher.

A familiar laugh snapped me out of my gaze.
I was in the company of two modern-day lovers, which usually meant someone’s husband and what we like to call a millennial.

“Where did you go?” she asked.
They had noticed I’d zoned out, and I must say, I was quite impressed.
It was an acknowledgment of my presence, despite my usual third-wheeling, non-existent self.
I smiled; it was an attempt at politeness.
At least, that’s the signal I sent to my brain.

I stared into my glass, now half-empty and possibly my second bottle of wine.
“Oh, never mind me. I’m fine,” I replied.

I lied.

If I’m being honest, I was bored out of my mind. Their conversation was mediocre. He spoke of his sad life, and she smiled at intervals. I would save her with nods, as if I could relate. I was now thinking of ways to escape. The wine was taking a toll on me. Yet, I wasn’t in the mood for my usual Sunday mischief.

By the looks of it, he had started spilling secrets of his obscene desires and there she was, hoping I’d be dumb enough to oblige. I pity these men; flaunting their money, thinking their beer bellies and corny jokes make them attractive.

I’ll pass, I thought to myself.

“Excuse me.” My bladder became my saving grace from what was about to become a very awkward situation. I took my bag and motioned toward the restroom.

“Should I come?” she asked. I declined.

Surely by now, I’d mastered the art of squatting, wiping, flushing, touching up my lipstick and maybe 
even taking a selfie, if the mirrors were any good. How extremely alluring EXIT signs become when you want to run away, how excruciatingly painful it is to have a conscience that wants to stay.

“Hey,” I smiled, having made my way back to the table. I was now gripping the shoulders of this pervert to prevent a fall; my knees had gone wobbly. In an attempt to escape what could’ve been an embarrassing moment, I smiled and repositioned myself gracefully. Judging by the look on his face, he thought I wanted to touch him; the way he lit up, flashing his perfect row of dentures.

Poor soul.

I gazed across the room, hoping for something exciting. Something intriguing, maybe. Nothing. Same faces in a familiar place. Earth must be Hell. Hell is home. I poured another glass and took another sip.

“Hi there,” a voice chimed in.

And though I was tempted to believe my wine bottle had come to life, I looked up anyway, 
relieved to see it was a man. Still, I couldn’t stop my eyes from rolling. Unfortunately for him, we hadn’t even made it to bed yet.

“Yes?” I replied, obviously annoyed. “I’m sorry if I bothered you,” he said. “You’re so breathtakingly beautiful.”

I smiled but only slightly. I started to look around. Somehow, it felt like everything had stopped.
Everyone was watching this human interaction with the unicorn that was me. 

“Thank you,” I replied, in an attempt at modesty.

“Your smile?” he asked.

“My smile?” I repeated, confused by the question.

“It would shut the whole room down. Hit all the lights off and still be so captivating,” he continued.

I laughed. He tried,  and something about red wine and poetry had my legs teasing themselves apart.

“Again, thanks. But if you don’t mind…” I said, gathering my thoughts. I used my eyes to indicate that I wasn’t alone. You’d think that would be enough for him to walk away.

Wrong.

“Let’s talk when you are,” he said, as if challenging my stance.

I was obviously third-wheeling, and somehow that amused him. I couldn’t help but notice his smirk as he walked away. I scoffed.

As if, I thought to myself then looked down. He had left his card on the table.