The Party
A woman on her left cackles loud enough to startle her. The tall glass of mulled wine in her hand sloshes dangerously against the sides as she jumps out of her skin; she’s anxious not to spill a drop on the cream carpet. Whatever the lady and fellow guests found so humorous, she has no idea. She wasn’t tuned in. Two relatives she’s only met a handful of times chatter beside her, but all their voices are just white noise. Someone else in the room has her full attention.
He’s stood by the fireplace, clutching a champagne flute, smiling and nodding along cordially at something her dad is saying. The corners of his mouth are tugged upwards so that his dimples surface, and laughter lines crease in waves in the corner of his eyes. He’s clean shaven – he wanted to make a good impression for her family. This, she can undoubtedly tell. Occasionally, he moves to fiddle with his nose ring. A nervous habit. It’s wonky now.
He has no reason to be nervous. She can tell her parents love him.
She’s still staring at him when his eyes meet hers. Her dad notices his switch of focus, no longer feigning interest about whatever business or politics nonsense they were discussing. Gingerly, her dad leans in and whispers something to him. Her brow creases anxiously, but she watches as he smiles and nods at her dad, before starting towards her.
Moses parts the Red Sea and no one else in the room notices. It’s only because she’s so focused on him that everyone else is blurred out. Her hands are already reaching out for him before he gets to her. It’s instinctual. Needy. Skin on skin; his hands slip effortlessly into her own, a little cold from holding his drink. She looks up to meet his eyes. Cool, dark, blue. He’s one of those people who can smile with just their eyes, communicating all you need to know without a single word. Her lips part but she can’t put together a sentence. The simple intimacy of everything is overwhelming.
“You alright?” he asks, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of her hand.
She nods, letting out a “mhmm” noise that sounds a little strained and squeaky.
One of his brows’ quirks, “do you want to go out for some air?”
She nods again.
The harsh December weather has her skin breaking out into goose bumps as soon as it hits. Garden fairy lights and a half crescent moon illuminate the back porch. She hugs her cardigan closer to her body just as he steps out after her, cigarette and lighter already in his hands.
“Bloody chilly, isn’t it?” he remarks before placing the cig between his lips.
“Yeah,” she sighs, head tilted up to the sky. It’s a clear night. She can pick out a single constellation – the only one she knows, but she can’t remember what it’s called. Her dads told her a hundred times. She always forgets.
“Your family are…” he pauses, exhaling smoke from his lit cig, “really nice.”
“You don’t have to say that,” she says, rolling her eyes. She watches the smoke curl in the air. “They’re overbearing.”
He shakes his head vehemently, “no, really, they’re nice. They’re interesting, and welcoming, and this all feels so homely. It reminds me of my family.”
She knows he loves his family; he’s a mummy’s boy, with four siblings and even more pets. Family means a lot to him – maybe even everything. She feels a little validated by his appreciation of her own.
“I suppose,” she says coolly, pinching his cig between her own fingers. “But it is Christmas. Everyone’s so jolly and nice at Christmas. Come visit again in July, then you can make a real verdict.”
He smiles at her softly, “July?”
Exhaling, she frowns. “Yeah?”
His head shakes gently, a little laugh escaping his lips.
“What?” she demands.
“Nothing,” he kicks a pebble on the path and shrugs.
She elbows him in the side impatiently, “what!”
“I just like the idea of seeing you in July. That we’ll be together then. That’s all.”
Her stomach does a backflip, butterflies running rampant inside her. She accidentally drops the cig she stole from him. It extinguishes itself on the damp ground.
“Sorry,” he mutters. If she could see his face, she knows that he’d turned a bright shade of red. “Was that too much?”
She grabs for his hand in the dark, “no, no, not at all. I’d like that, too.”
He squeezes her fingers tighter and pulls her into him. He tastes like the champagne – the type her mum always buys -- and cigarettes, a taste she’s grown fondly accustomed to. His scent envelops her, smoke from the fireplace and the aftershave she bought him for Christmas. His lips slant against hers with familiarity and eager desire. She can’t drink him in fast enough. Behind them, laughter and chatter and music radiate out of the house. They stand in the warm light of the living room window, and suddenly she feels much warmer.