The rules are on the table, but really, I should have already known them. It’s so far uptown the air thins out, and so far east I need a passport. Emails all week “come over,” and “can’t you skip work?,” and finally, “I’m hosting a party on Saturday; be here.” You play a very aggressive game, I think, and grab Quinn and Heather for the trek.
The second floor is crumbling and luscious and striped. A circle of couches, a coven of kids. Popped collars all around, even the girls. Clouds of hash that match the curtains. “Were you invited?” asks one I already know. Have you seen this dress? It’s invited everywhere. But yes, we were invited. Perhaps I’ll forward you the email. I smile anyway. He could just be high.
On the grand tour, we run to the closets and find a ribbon belt stash. “Oh!” says our host, “I’m starting a belt company.” This is actually the first thing he’s said to us. We’ve been here for like an hour. Heather can’t resist: “Wow, are you showing in the tents?” she asks. Exit the other girls, who now look disgusted as opposed to just confused. “They’re sweet,” says our host. I wonder how many people say I’m shy, especially as an excuse.
Overheard:
“So, do you girls all live downtown?”
“I met this guy at my fourth boarding school!”
“Oh honey, I just think social tension is really interesting. Having you here makes it a lot more fun.”
“These girls are going to the MisShapes Concert next.”
On the way out we find our host, with a girl with a boy’s name, in the kitchen. It’s very Ice Storm, with pinker clothes.
“Goodbye,” we shout to nobody, and he calls from the pantry, “Hey! Be nice when you write about this!”
I don’t even know what to say, so I let the door shut itself.
[MARLEY SHELTON - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]