Imaginary Socialite

ONE. “What was your sorority like?”

An odd question for a Brooklyn tea party, but okay.

“We were fun,” I start. “Nicer than most of them” I guess. “Sort of… wild. Like, um, I don’t know. Sisterhood of the Traveling Panties.”

“Save that name,” he slides. “You know, in case you ever write a softcore sitcom.”

“Oh, thanks,.”

“Hey,” he glints, “I’d watch it.”

TWO. New party, same borough, a room emptying out of two couples, and one of them’s yours. Stomachs rumble and the boys grumble for veggie burgers, and I’m sitting on the couch, ignored.

I don’t really care, but after everyone goes, you come back through the arch alone, and “Heyyyy, how’s it going?” and a hug before I shove back, “What the hell? I was sitting right next to you, like, al night!”

Your smile is too big for my snarl, and we are the only ones here.

THREE. Dirty jokes on the subway lead to dirty streets of Manhattan lead to dirty dancing in the Thompson LES bathroom.

“We’re the only ones here who aren’t coked out,” he laughs, but I can’t tell if he means “the only ones in the bathroom” or “the only ones in the world.” Either seem true right now, and right now is 2:30 am.

“All the girls here are so pretty,” he says.

“So go talk to them,” I nudge. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

But his feet stay frozen.

FOUR. “I know the girl who bartends here,” he says, but I can see sun streaks and I’m all pubbed out. But I peek quick through the window grime and it shows this: She thinks if it were the ’40s, she’d be a pinup girl who also worked on cars.

“Goodnight babe,” I smile, and he tries to kiss me but I’m already gone, striding it home ten blocks. And if it were the ’40s, I would have done the same thing.

[TAMSIN DORLING - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

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