A Social Faux Pas

Attending a party without a date is a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions—or at least it seemed. For most, it’s embarrassing, but for me—social suicide. Skipping the event crossed my mind, but I’d spent a mint on the dress, shoes, and accessories. And don’t forget the clutch—perfectly matching my shoes. That kind of synchronicity doesn’t happen accidently. Every feminine shopper knows it’s the call of serendipity.

Todd, my guy, enjoyed me on his arm like an accessory. He loved my strategically timed giggles, as he regurgitated his ridiculous stories for anyone willing to listen. Meanwhile, I’d sip my wine, surveying the room like a queen evaluating her subjects’ sartorial efforts. Were their dresses good? Perhaps. Better than mine? Unthinkable. Todd’s tales were practically scripted—retold like the sex ed video we endured repeatedly in fourth, fifth, and sixth grade. Honestly, those awkward anatomical diagrams were more engaging. Yawn!

This morning, Todd called to inform me that he couldn’t keep anything down. I was this close to asking if he’d managed to get anything up either, but my unparalleled wit has limits. Some jokes are best left to the echo chamber of my own head, where they’re guaranteed appreciation.

I’d decided it was time to brainstorm a stand-in when my stomach gurgled—it reminded me I wasn’t cut out for deliberation on an empty tank. “Got it,” I said, as though asked. The cure-all for all ailments was what I needed: food. I grabbed my jacket and dashed. The covered parking was full, leaving my car out on the street. Worse still, the snowplow had barricaded it behind two feet of snow. “Great!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands helplessly into the air.

“Here, let me help you, Christy,” a familiar voice called from behind. I didn’t turn around—I knew who it was. The building’s maintenance guy. Grossly overweight and perpetually lingering, he had a knack for appearing at the worst possible moments. He spent his time tending to the old ladies in the building—the ones with one foot in the grave and the other clutching the doorknob, fending off eternity. I let him assist out of pity. What can I say? The man has a not-so-subtle crush on me. So, he might as well put that shovel to use.

“Hey, Stewie,” I said, flashing him my you-caught-me-at-just-the-right-time smile. “How’ve you been?” Rule number one: never ask for a favor without buttering up the target first. It’s basic social strategy—takes a minute, saves you fifteen. “You look great! Absolutely brimming with festive spirit!” I piled on, leaning into the cheerfulness that left him beaming and, more importantly, shoveling.

“Yep, I am festive,” Stewart sheepishly grinned, soaking in the compliment. Missile launching—begin countdown. His eyes twinkled, giving the once-over like he was scanning for something worth reporting. “Taking off?”

Caught off-guard, I was stuck on a single thought: a frozen scoop of vanilla ice cream sinking into a steaming cup of cocoa, dotted with miniature colorful marshmallows. “Well,” I said, feigning defeat, “I was going over to Franny’s to drown my sorrows in dessert, but as you can see”—I gestured at the snowplow’s disaster—“I’ve got problems.”

He studied the embankment barricading my car, as if this were just another day in his snow-shoveling chronicles. With a gentle smile and a nod, he disappeared and returned with a shovel, diving into the task. “Twelve minutes?” I chuckled as he finished. “Do they give trophies for this?”

Then an idea barged into my thoughts, entirely out of character, but my mouth betrayed me. “Stew,” I purred, the words tumbling as if beating a deadline, “What’s the possibility you’re free tonight?”

My question must have blindsided him, judging by the way he stammered, his brain short-circuiting that I would ask him out. I maintained my composure, playing demure—wouldn’t want to throw any curveballs into the mix and risk further scrambling his already-befuddled brain.

“Ah, Ms. Hatch, I actually am,” his voice tinged with uncertainty. After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Did you… need an escort to the party?” The way he said it, like he was trying on the word escort for size, almost made me feel bad for him.

It was as if he’d read my mind. I caught myself wondering if he’d seen my invitation. Maybe on my table through the window. Or perhaps he’d witnessed me shopping, and noticed it tucked into my purse. But even then, how would he know the date? “Did you know I was going to a party tonight?” I asked, narrowing my eyes slightly. “Have you been spying on me, Stewart?”

For a moment, he looked embarrassed, like he’d been caught. But he recovered quickly, with a defensive sort of earnestness. “No, never. I’d never do that,” he said, his tone oozing with sincerity. “I heard you talking to Ms. Sedakis yesterday—remember? You were chatting in the garden, and I waved?” His eyes darted slightly, as if willing me to recall the moment and immediately absolve him.

A faint memory surfaced as he mentioned it. Susan Sedakis —my friend for so long I couldn’t even pinpoint when it all began. We’d shared everything, from elementary school crushes to tales of grandkids, although I was far too young for that chapter. Grandkids? I could barely juggle university studies, let alone the chaos of diaper rash and late-night tooth fairy missions. Honestly, the thought of a mature stage of life filled me with as much dread as a trip to the gynecologist—necessary, inevitable, and ruefully unpleasant.

“Anyways,” Stewart said with a shrug, “I figured you’d like company.” His tone didn’t falter, “Unless someone else—I mean, I recall you’re sweet on Bob.” He delivered the line with the confidence of someone who thought he’d struck gold, like mentioning Bob might be his ticket to making me blush.

“Bob?” My brain hiccuped before realizing Stewart had mixed things up. I quickly set him straight. “No,” I said, waving a dismissive hand as if to clear the air. “I’m dating Todd now, from my physics class. But he’s ill,” I added, with emphasis suggesting it was both unfortunate and inconvenient.

“Oh, that’s right, Todd!” Stewie laughed, his error clearly dawning on him. “Sorry about that,” he snickered with a sheepish nod, mumbling under his breath. He straightened his shirt by rubbing his hands down the front like he was preparing for a grand debut. “Well, if you’d do me the honors,” he said, flashing a grin, “it would be my pleasure to escort you tonight.”

At first, I couldn’t help but smirk at his dapper scheme to get me into his bed—the scoundrel. Still, I had to admit, the idea of his company wasn’t the worst, and he certainly seemed… available. Besides, no one said we had to end the night in bed. As low as he ranked on my totem pole of expectations, the party would suffice. “Wonderful!” I exclaimed. “I’ll be ready at half-past five. They begin serving dinner at six, but I’d rather not arrive early. It’s best to stir their expectations.” I raised a hand to cover my snigger, perfectly timed and utterly coquettish.

“Understood,” Stewie said, grinning like I’d just rescued him from an evening spent watching his cat sleep. Truthfully, this might well turn out to be the highlight of his year. The thought sent a surprising warmth through my chest. Who knew a social faux pas could double as an act of charity?

As I prepared for the party, I ensured I’d be the envy of every woman with my Louis Vuitton shoes and matching clutch complimenting my ensemble flawlessly—a rare, divine alignment of fashion. Adding my finest pearl earrings and an understated necklace, they popped across black and deep green velvet of my gown. A spritz of Dolce & Gabbana behind each ear and between my wrists, completed the ritual. None of this, of course, was for Stewie. Tonight, I would be the youthfully voluptuous jewel of the ball—the woman other women were certain their husbands would fantasize about later, as they engaged in their obligatory marital rituals. I was the woman all other women hated—and I counted on it.

When Stewart picked me up, his outfit didn’t exactly jive with mine—or even close. But, that only cemented the idea that we were mismatched. Besides, it wasn’t like he could dress for an event like this, and I wasn’t about to hold his plain brown suit against him. I was just glad he’d offered.

When he knocked, I waited a full two minutes before answering—to avoid appearing overzealous. Desperation, after all, isn’t flattering. I opened the door knowing full well my attire would have the desired effect. Stewie stood there, mouth agape, his stunned silence lingering just long enough to border on awkward. Perfect.

I tried not to look too smug as I offered a lightly chastising response. “Stewie, you’re embarrassing me,” I said, with a grin that balanced just the right amount of amusement and modesty. “Pull yourself together for God’s sake.”

Straightening his tie with confidence, Stewie offered his arm, and I placed my hand gently at his elbow. He led me to the awaiting car, and I wasn’t disappointed. A sleek limousine stood before us, complete with a capped driver who held the door without uttering a word. His beady dark eyes, however, seemed glued to me in the rearview mirror, practically burning holes through the glass. I couldn’t help but imagine him, tossing me across the hood of the car and ravaging me right then and there, Stewie be damned. Not that Stewie would permit such an atrocity. And even as my imagination ran wild, I couldn’t bring myself to ignore the lit up city’s view. 

As we arrived, the guests had gathered along the sidewalk. One by one, they noticed me, stepping aside as if to clear a path for royalty. I could practically feel the invisible crown perched on my head. The glow from inside made every painstaking moment of preparation worthwhile. 

Then, a small boy—no older than four—pointed at me with wide eyes and an open mouth, an expression reserved for princesses or movie stars. His parents looked mortified. His mother quickly knelt beside him, gently pushing his arm down and whispering whatever she could to temper his misgivings. The scene was one I couldn’t have scripted better.

I nodded at him, certain I’d just become the highlight of his world. Monday, I had no doubt I’d be the star of his preschool storytelling session—a glamorous figure among finger paints and snack time.

As we approached the grand double doors, I noticed there was no doorman—a minor oversight, in my opinion. Stewie, however, didn’t seem the least bit fazed. Without hesitation, he strode ahead and pulled the door open with an air of chivalry that, dare I say, suited him. Once inside, I paused just long enough for him to rejoin me before placing my hand on his arm, as if we’d rehearsed this a hundred times. Together, we continued toward a desk situated prominently at the entrance.

“Christina Hatch,” Stewie announced, introducing me with an air of propriety to the woman seated prominently behind the desk. She neither smiled nor welcomed us, instead offering a curt nod as she handed him a plain white plastic card with a gold star on it. Without missing a beat, Stewie accepted it and led me down the hallway. He paused at a door, sliding the card into a slot. A click… and the door opened. 

Inside, two chairs faced a desk, behind which sat an older gentleman exuding an air of authority. He nodded at Stewie in acknowledgment, his expression calm yet unreadable, as though their exchange was part of a rehearsed ritual.

“I’ll be here when you’re finished, Christy,” Stewie assured me, his voice reassuring. Placing the white card on the desk, he gave me a nod before slipping out.

Perplexed, my eyes lingered on the door for a moment before the man’s voice drew my attention. “Christy, so good to see you again,” he said, his tone carrying an odd, uncomfortable familiarity. “How are you feeling this week?”

“I’m fine. How are you?” I replied, masking my irritation that he hadn’t greeted me with the same courtesy I was accustomed to. Not that I really cared—I was merely extending a bit of casual respect, despite the knot in my throat. I had no idea what was happening or why we were here. Glancing at the clock, I asked, “Will this take long?” My tone rang deliberately sharp. “I don’t want to miss dinner before the dancing begins.”

Ignoring my question, he torpedoed ahead with his own agenda. “I see you’re dressed extra special today, Christy,” he remarked, his tone as casual as if we were discussing the weather. “Any particular reason?”

In an effort to curb my growing anger, I clasped my hands tightly, digging my nails into the soft spaces between my fingers. The sharp sting worked as a distraction, pulling my attention away from my frustration. The man’s eyes flicked to my hands, narrowing before he blinked and adjusted his glasses on his nose. “Please, have a seat so we can begin,” his tone remained unruffled.

Digging my nails deeper into my skin, shaking knuckles white, I landed hard.

“Last week, you promised to act better this week. Do you remember?” he asked, leaning forward over his desk, his arms resting across the scattered papers and pens. Yet his eyes were anything but casual—they seemed to pierce through me, burrowing under my skin like filthy maggots. “Remember?” he repeated, his tone firmer, as if daring a denial.

It hit me like a club against my head, snapping my neck to one side as an intense, searing pain gripped my forehead. It felt as though sharp pencils stabbed into my temples from both sides, converging in a relentless, torturous push. Squeezing my eyes closed, I released my clenched hands, threading my fingers into my hair and twisting strands in a desperate attempt to anchor myself. A horrific scream erupted from deep within me, raw and uncontrollable, tearing, like an animal breaking free of its cage.

The man’s expression shifted abruptly, worry crossed his face as he rose from behind the desk. Before I could process his reaction, the door behind me swung open and two men entered. Their uniforms marking them as some kind of officers. Without hesitation, they each grabbed one of my arms.

“Garbage bags today?” one of them snickered, his grin laced with mockery. “New heights, huh?”

“That’s enough!” the man behind the desk barked, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. “She’s clueless.”

I lowered my eyes, and a wave of disbelief washed over me as I realized I was dressed in an elaborate arrangement of garbage bags. Shimmering green and black plastic knotted around my body in a peculiar, almost deliberate style. My clutch was gone, replaced by a dented metal lunchbox with a faded Strawberry Shortcake character on the side. My feet were bare, the coldness of the floor sending a shiver up my spine. And finally, draped around my neck was a makeshift necklace—a strand of interwoven paper clips that glistened with each breath.

My anger surged, threatening to spill over like a dam about to burst. “Get Todd!” I demanded, my voice trembling with rage. “He’s sick, but call him. He’ll make sure your head is served as the main course!”

The guard who had mocked my attire earlier snorted, his grin widening. “Who’s Todd?” he asked, as if I’d just uttered the punchline to a joke he didn’t get.

“Take her to Room 3,” the man behind the desk ordered, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. “And tell Stewart, who’s waiting out front, that he can leave. We’re keeping her this time—she’s out of control.”

“Who’s Todd?” the guard asked again, turning me toward the doors while still facing the man at the desk.

“He’s her deceased husband,” the man answered, impatiently. “A bomber entered his office building while she waited at home. They were headed to a party that night.”

“No, no!” I hollered, tears clouding my vision as I crumpled to the floor. “Not Todd. Not tonight. Not real!”

I lay there sobbing, riddled with confusion as a montage flooded my memory: I was standing in front of the mirror with Dolce & Gabbana accessories and my Christian Dior black and green velvet dress. My prominent jewelry; opulent pearls about my neck and dangling from my ears. My contoured cheekbones set off with makeup and scarlet-covered full lips. I had on new mascara, certain Todd would notice, although he hadn’t before.

My mind flashed back and forth, leaving me in green and black mangled garbage bags.

Stewie, the maintenance man of my building flickered from his gear to a hospital uniform.

The limousine ride, where the classy chauffeur held my door open, became a dingy yellow taxi with a young middle-eastern cab driver.

My hands stretched out where my fingers dug into the soft flesh between them earlier, showing moon-shaped crevasses through peeling skin, speckled with dots of emerging blood.

Like the last scene of a film, where the evil witch vows her revenge as she melts into oblivion, I lay there, ranting, raving, and screaming myself hoarse. 

Then, a delicate touch landed on my shoulder. It settled warm and firm, refusing to move and gently squeezing.

When my breathing calmed, my head lifted to see Todd grinning down from under his blond hair. “You’re okay, love,” he whispered, “Small setback, but you’re safe with me now. Can you get up? I’ll take you home.”

My legs were a bit wobbly, and my rail-thin arms were weak, but I folded up against him. “I want to go home,” I whimpered against his collar, allowing him to lead.

Behind, the nurse collected the empty hypodermic needle and washed the floor clean in preparation for tomorrow. That’s when we would start anew.