I stir my coffee slowly and methodically because I am aware that I am being watched. Were I alone I would pour the cream in and allow it to mix naturally with the coffee. I would watch the tiny globules of creamy fat explode open and glide through the warm brown sea the way the hair of a mermaid bursts forward as she stops abruptly to change direction upon encountering a sunken ship. I sip politely, although the coffee is acidic and stale, a combination of bile and letter glue.
Around me the ladies sit proper in their chair, the hostess beams and offers us gooey fig cookies from a tiny china plate. Everyone appears to be speaking in code "you look lovely" "the coffee is divine" "where in the world did you find that fabulous pattern" The hostess was Scarlett O'hara, closely surrounded by her admirers, whose reddening faces appeared to be acquiring sunburns from her radiance. The image of Scarlet O'hara suddenly made me feel as though I were wearing a very tight corset, the laces constricting my lungs I until I found it difficult to breathe properly.
They brought out the baba ganoush. That creamy eggplant and salted flat bread with olives made the saliva pool on my tongue. I anticipated tanginess, I wanted to rip into the soft warm flat bread and scoop the creamy baba ganoush. Roasted eggplant can be bitter or sweet depending on the chef and I was dying to taste this particular batch. Unfortunately, I was trapped by my anxiety. I was imprisoned by my own silence. The only way out was to find an ally. I needed to find someone quickly, and, pulling them aside, expel as many honest thoughts as possible to reduce the pressure in my chest. Dishonesty makes me anxious. I don't mean outright lying, I mean squandering feelings.
I was afraid to speak openly in front of the group. Not that I was afraid of their judgement, I was afraid of their flattery. Flattery can be used as a pacifier, to quiet the nonsensical cries of real emotion when the occasion calls for pleasantries. I needed to wail and be heard, or I feared I would burst at the ribcage. When the conversation had turned to gossip about Mrs. So and So who couldn't attend and her "workaholic-husband-such-a-nice-man-but-never-around-for-the- kids" I scooped up the half empty fig cookie tray and headed off to the kitchen.
"Hey" The hostess had a teenage daughter who was sitting at the kitchen counter glued to her text messenger, she had looked up for a moment only to acknowledge me.
"Hey!" I said, all too enthusiastically. I had found a victim. Teenagers are sponges who have an over-expansive capacity to absorb what is "real". I set my intention on venting, but something shifted in that moment, and I felt I had some greater purpose for being in the kitchen. I sat next to her and began making small talk. Soon she began sharing every pessimistic though, every fear, every doubt, that she had never before shared with another human being. As I listened, I felt my breathing relax. Our story was one story, our fears were the same, she spoke so eloquently that I laughed freely because I could relate to her. I had forgotten all about the party, until the hostess rushed in to refill the cream carafe. "Have you met my daughter Lise?" the hostess said looking at us as we sat in adjacent chairs. Clearly we had met. Lise rolled her eyes. I reached my hand out and said, "how DO you DO Lise" Mocking a proper introduction. Lise laughed. The hostess swung herself back into the party. I whirled up from my chair to follow.
The eggplant was divine.
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