A Timely Sentence

You woke to the chorus of birds chirping from the boughs of the elm tree outside your window. The day was still new; the sky held on to the grey light of pre-dawn, and you embraced the opportunity to trudge down the stairs to the kitchen and make yourself a cup of coffee.

With a yawn, you begin the morning ritual and breathe deep the rich aroma as the grinder gets to work. The coffee machine gurgles and sputters to life, a momentary hesitation before the satisfying splash of coffee hitting the cup.

The sound immediately reminds you of your full bladder and you dash to relieve yourself. Your cup is full when you return and you pour the cream and add the sugar—two lumps, just as you learned.

You take your coffee onto the back deck and sink into your favourite deck chair, your hands wrapped around your favourite coffee mug. The sounds of the world waking are peaceful, even if your mind is not.

Already it is full of noise.

In the stillness of the early morning the sound of the metal letter flap opening, and the day’s mail dropping onto the hardwood, is jarring and you wonder how you can sleep through such cacophony. You take your time drinking your coffee before returning inside, mug in hand, to collect the mail.

There are the usual bills and flyers, and you set those aside to go through later. One envelope stands out. It is crafted from heavy parchment—the expensive kind, and you marvel at the softness of it between your fingers.

You never realized paper could feel like this.

Your name and address are written across the front in a careful, swirling script. Each stroke is precise and delicate, but other than your information the front is blank. You turn the envelope over and find what you presume are initials in the same hand and a thick wax seal pressed with the same monogram, but no other identifiers. You stare at the initials, your head spinning as you try to think of anyone with a name to match, but come up blank.

It is addressed to you, but you cannot place its sender. You shrug. If it’s addressed to you, what does it matter? You grab a letter opener from your desk and slide the blade under the wax seal.

You pull a card from the envelope and turn it over. It is an invitation to a party and you wonder if it’s a generic invitation to a new club opening. You consider throwing it in the trash for a moment, but something stops you. It has been some time since you went out, and a mindless party at a new club might be just the thing you need.

You check the invitation and gasp when you see it is for later today. You take your time getting ready; there’s no need to rush and be one of the first there. Every step, from showering to your hair and make-up, executed with perfect precision.

The address, when you type the strange number on the invitation into your phone, is only a few blocks away and you decide walking is better than taking an Uber. You check your reflection one last time, making sure every strand of hair is in its right place, and that your face still looks like a carefully put together piece of art.

A few hundred meters away you stop to check yourself in the little compact mirror you carry in your handbag, and you check the time. 

Perfect. Just as you intended you are fashionably late.

Late enough that if anyone was expecting you, they would wonder if you would show, but not too late they would give up on your presence. You walk up to the club door and smile at the bouncer standing outside, hands crossed before him. He barely glances at the invitation you pull out of your handbag and he nods. The door behind him opens into darkness and you smile as you slip passed him.

Something is off, but you cannot place it at first. You walk through the entryway and up a flight of stairs, but the only thing you hear is the click of your heels on the tiled floor. No thumping music so loud you cannot hear yourself think, no ruckus from hundreds of patrons shouting to be heard over the music.

Great soundproofing, you think as you reach the top of the stairs and turn down a dark hallway. You can see the outline of a door at the end of the hallway, light streaming through the cracks in the frame, and you think you can see the flash of strobe lights and feel the bass through your feet.

You try to open the door and meet resistance. You push and pull, but the door will not budge.

Great, you think and fold your arms, outsmarted by a door. How embarrassing. To be so close to the party and kept out because you cannot figure out how to open a simple door.

You roll your eyes. It would be just your luck.

Just as you turn away to talk to the doorman, you hear a soft click and turn to see the door has opened. You hurry through before a gust of wind or the vibration from the bass can close the door.

It is darker here than in the hall. You are confused momentarily before a bright strobe of light shatters the darkness, and you see there is a hallway that leads to the source of the light. The wall corrals you and is peppered with holes the light peeks through. 

You can hear the drum of music, but it is not as loud as you expected and you wonder how the sounds are still so muffled. Another strobe of light and you are almost at the end of the hall. You turn the corner and run into yet another door.

You curse and throw your hands up, but the door opens with a soft click and the light inside is dazzling and music roars into the stillness. You take a moment to fix your hair before you step through.

People pack the dance floor and the booths lining the wall and you immediately feel claustrophobic. They swarm even at the bars, a sea of gyrating and pressing bodies. You turn, changing your mind on this entire club experience, but the door is no longer behind you.

“What the hell?” you stammer and turn on the spot. You cannot remember being jostled away from the door, but it’s gone and you cannot find it now.

You feel something cold press against your hand and you turn to see a cart, filled to the brim with ice. Cans and bottles poke out here and there, and the bartender gives you a wide smile.  “Fancy something to drink?” they ask, and you nod. “Reach on in; you’ll like what we have.”

You reach your hand in, shivering as the ice touches your skin, and pull out a can of your favourite drink. As you pull out your wallet to pay, the bartender waves your hand away. “Drink’s on the house for pretty girls like you,” they say with a wink.

You take your drink and wipe the top clean before popping it open and taking a sip. It tastes better than you remember and more intoxicating. You feel buzzed after only a few sips. There is something drawing you to the dance floor and you finish your drink.

The pulse of music draws you forward, though you are stumbling through the crowd. It is hot among all the bodies, and you forget what it was you were looking for when you got here.

You notice a booth, bathed in shadow, and you feel drawn to it, despite a patron seated in the deepest part of the shadows. They reached an arm forward, into the light, and crook a finger at you. Your feet seem to move without your input, and you take a seat in the booth. 

“Late to the party,” they say. Their voice is like the crumbling of boulders, and something about it sends a shiver up your spine and your blood runs cold.

“I am ever so sorry, I thought it would be fine to turn up a little later,” you say. They lift their hand, the only part of them you can see, and you know you are being commanded to be silent.

“I do not appreciate tardiness. It is rude. Where are your manners?”

Your heart races and you feel a fine sweat break out across your lip. You feel like a deer that has walked into the wolves’ den. Their eyes are on you, dissecting and piercing through you, and you swallow around the fear that has risen like bile.

“What shall we do to teach you the value of being on time?” they say, and you tremble in your seat. “The only way to teach you how it feels to have your time wasted is to waste your time. You will remain here a year for every minute you kept me waiting. I am sure that will teach you.”

You open your mouth to protest—you were only thirty-seven minutes late, how was a year for each minute fair? They pound their hand on the table and you feel yourself get to your feet and move back to the dance floor.

“How long are you sentenced for?” someone asks you over the pounding of the music.