The room hums with conversations. Laughter carries through the house. The music sets the backdrop for dancing in one space, talking in others. Some folks in the kitchen exchange recipes as they sip their inventively dirty martinis and sleepy girl mocktails.
You slip out to use the bathroom but everyone thinks you left for good. The renter-friendly renovation is stunning. You marvel at the shower tile, expertly applied stick on! Incredible, you think, chuckling to yourself. And so affordable.
From behind the closed door you hear the tone shift. Jokes and stories turn to venom, hidden claws unsheathe like swords. You become uneasy, your ear tuning into their words.
“Ugh, she never shuts up!” They all but squeal in your perceived absence.
It was a party, you thought. A party you helped host and organize. A party you facilitated with time and money and carefully curated party favors for the guests, your friends. It was a joy to contribute, to commune. But it seems it was a lie.
“She thinks it’s all about her. Finally we can talk about what WE want to talk about.”
You wash your hands thinking of all the stories you’ve listened to all night, their experiences, their pictures and a singer called Robbie they can’t believe you don’t know about. You wash your hands but their voices carry over the water.
“It’s so quiet now!” They revel, their voices splashed against your music out in the room you helped decorate as they fill their mouths with Tini’s mac and cheese and Cassie’s soul-warming soup topped with its little green onion razzle dazzle.
“And did you see what she was wearing?!”
It’s the voice of a trusted friend. A trusted friend who just happens to be wearing the exact same dress as you, though now she insists hers is white and gold not blue and black like yours. She’s different, nothing like you.
But you grew up on the same street. Next door neighbors, playing street hockey together between passing cars. You shared everything growing up. You even had the same favorite music and movies and shows. She came to all your clam bakes and cookouts & you tried poutine and kraft dinner at her house.
They’re still laughing but you realize the joke is you.
Your reflection winces in the bathroom mirror. You take a deep breath, fix the corner of your eyeliner, and accept the L. This is what your mother meant when she said she wasn’t mad, just disappointed.
The knob is cold in your hand. The door opens without a sound. Before they know it, you’re down the hall and back in the room with them.
Sudden silence thunders in your ears. Your friend, your neighbor, starts to cry. She didn’t mean it. And if she did it’s your fault anyway. You stare wordlessly; she runs from the house.
One by one they fade against the walls. Silverware clatters in the kitchen sink. You start cleaning up. Some of the guests help, apologizing. But they didn’t speak up when they thought you were gone, when you couldn’t speak for yourself.
“I love you,” one of your louder more ostentatious friends insists. “But the quiet was nice,” they finish.
The quiet was nice.
Noted.
Jen Capra 