Pendulum Swing

Tick, tick, tick.

The party started at eight-thirty, but nobody could recall when the man arrived. The lady with the pink boa, quite extravagant for such an occasion, swore she saw him dance in. He swept through the double doors, she said, with a flourish so dramatic it must have been rehearsed. 

Surprisingly, this grand gesture had drawn no attention besides her curious eyes. The lady with the pink boa had noticed other people at the party too, for she had a knack for noticing things. Not the things most people paid attention to. No, her sharp eyes always found the unusual, the out-of-place. She had a penchant for details, the kind that slipped past others. Suppose a crooked cufflink, a smudge of lipstick on someone else’s collar, or the faint clinking of keys as someone slipped quietly out the back door. She knew. They did not. The others were too oblivious.

She was the kind of woman who lingered in cafés just a moment too long, her ears tilted toward hushed conversations. If the town had a secret, chances were, she already knew it. Or, at the very least, had spun a delightful version of her own. A little web weaver, she was. 

At the beginning of the party, she had moved near the grand doors, a glass of champagne poised delicately between her fingers. The boa, as absurd as it was, suited her. Pink against a black cocktail dress. Unlike the man, she screamed notice me! The lady with the pink boa had watched the guests arrive with the precision of a hawk, cataloging faces, outfits, and even the way they moved. 

Perhaps that’s why she saw him first. The sweeping gesture as he entered, the way the crowd seemed to shift without ever looking his way. There was something odd about how he held himself, she’d thought later. Too casual for someone so deliberate. Too unnoticed for someone so distinct.

But she noticed. Of course she did. That’s what she was good at. Except, she hadn’t had a watch to mark the hour. A pity.

However, she was questioned, so she replied. It was after the party when she was interviewed. Something about stolen jewelry?

He was sickly smooth.

Sickly smooth? Was the man ill?

No no, not at all. He was unnatural. Like an otherworldly creature trapped in a mortal body. It was the only phrase she could think of to describe him. He seemed to glide through the room, unnoticed, unremarkable, and then gone as if he’d never been there at all.

The questioner sighed. Well, thank you, madam.

No more questions?

No, that will be all.

The pendulum in the center ballroom went tick, tick, tick.

The couple by the bar, Mr. and Ms. Vanderox, claimed to have seen him next. The man had ordered a glass of whiskey and perched himself on a maroon barstool. His posture was relaxed, and his gaze was sharp as it swept the crowd. For a while, he did nothing but watch, the amber lights of the room flickering off his drink.

Ms. Vanderox was the embodiment of elegance, the kind of woman who could wear an heirloom pendant, made of a hateful bronze, and make it look as though it had been crafted for her. She moved with the languid class of someone who had never rushed for a bus or fumbled with loose change at a counter. Her silvery bangles chimed softly as she lifted the wine to her lips. She liked the sound; it reminded her of coins dropping into a velvet purse. It was rich.

She had a taste for the finer things: wine that cost as much as the chandelier, vacations that involved private jets and exclusive resorts. When something displeased her, say a botched floral arrangement or a waiter with a wrinkled shirt, she solved the issue the same way she always had: by throwing money at it. Money smoothed everything over, softened sharp edges, and quieted raised voices. Money was her lifeline.

And yet, Ms. Vanderox was no fool. She hid a sharp mind behind her delicate demeanor and posh exterior. That man, she thought, perched on the barstool, swirling his whiskey, did not belong at this party. Not because of his attire, though the sneakers were an affront to her sensibilities, but because of the air about him.

At first, she and her husband had watched him out of suspicion, her pale fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. A man like that couldn’t have been invited. Especially not to this kind of party. Her party. Surely someone must have seen him slip in through the side door or scale the garden wall. 

But no. Even better, nobody seemed to care!

Ms. Vanderox wasn’t one for confrontation, it was usually her husband's job. And she wasn’t particularly interested in playing the role of hostess, certainly not tonight when the guest list had been curated by her husband and his business cronies. But her curiosity got the better of her, it always did. The way he sat there, unbothered, observing the room as though he had every right to be there, bold beyond belief. It was entertaining and the first thing to actually spark her interest that night. She hid a smile behind her hands.

It wasn’t just that his suit was off the rack or that his bowler hat seemed better suited for a costume party. No, it was his attitude. He carried himself with an ease that felt almost... deliberate. Like he wanted to blend in but wasn’t entirely convinced he needed to.

She approached him with her usual poise, jewelry catching the light as she settled on the barstool beside his.

Good evening, she began.

He tipped his bowler down in greeting. How’d ya do, miss?

Ah, simply delightful I do say. What shall I call you?

I dunno. Whatever ya’d like, I suppose.

You don’t know? Can’t you remember your name?

Can’t say I do, he’d replied lightly, almost amused.

How odd, she hummed. Well, no matter, here have another drink. It’s on my husband.

And then he had smiled, polite, the kind that lingered just long enough to be noticed. He accepted the drink with a nod, and their conversation drifted into silence. Mr. Vanderox was too absorbed by his blunt and the men laughing next to him to notice his wife engaging with another man. Or he simply just did not care enough for the nameless man to acknowledge him conversing with her. 

And that was that. She returned to her place by the bar, her curiosity temporarily sated. Traitorous, her eyes wandered back to the man more than once. She didn’t care how he’d gotten in. Oh, what fun! Let the man stay, she thought. Parties like these needed a little intrigue, after all.

Tick, tick, tick.

The bartender polished the same glass for the third time, annoyance finally settling in his twitching eye. The hum of conversation filled the room, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the chime of a toast. To him, it was background noise, a cacophony he’d heard a hundred times before at a hundred different parties. 

His gaze drifted to Ms. Vanderox and the man she’d approached. A peculiar pair, he thought, his brow furrowing as he rubbed his mustache. She moved with her usual precision, a predator stalking prey, her bangles jangling faintly as if announcing her presence. She was the type who exuded control, her voice always a touch too crisp, her smile just sharp enough to remind you who held the reins. But the man didn’t bow to her power.

The bartender watched the exchange as he set the glass aside, pulling another from the rack. Ms. Vanderox leaned in, her posture calculated, her tone smooth as aged wine. She asked questions, probing for details like she was used to getting answers. The man, however, matched each ask with an almost childlike nonchalance. Consistent with her character, Ms. Vanderox did not falter. She just hummed, thinking for a minute. Then she simply accepted his air of evasiveness and left him alone.

Running his fingers over his mustache, the bartender poured another drink for a passing guest without looking. She’s not used to this, he thought, watching her lose control of the situation. This man, whoever he was, had turned the tables, and for once, she was the one struggling to keep up. Though, she didn't seem to mind much.

And then there were the others.

The other guests flit about, their jewels flashing in the light of the grand chandelier. Not one of them seemed to notice. They laughed too loudly, clinked glasses too carelessly, their faces flushed with alcohol and the warmth of their own self-importance. Not one of them had paused to wonder who the man was or why he was there. To them, he might as well have been a piece of furniture, just another part of the scenery for them to walk all over.

The bartender smirked faintly as he handed a new glass of champagne to a lady draped in a pink boa. She hardly looked his way, eyes across the room already on her next target. He knew her. She was at every party he was at. Gossiping in this corner, sharing secrets in the next. He sighed.

They never notice, he thought, as he rubbed his mustache again. They’re too busy with their games, their gossip, their little kingdoms. If a stranger wandered in, as long as he wasn’t a pawn on the wrong side of the board, they wouldn’t care. They were drunk on themselves, their judgments slipping out like loose coins, their eyes glassy with indulgence.

The bartender’s gaze returned to the man. He wasn’t like the others, and not just because his suit was off-the-rack or his bowler hat was better suited to a vaudeville act. It was the way he carried himself, with a confidence that felt almost unnatural. He didn’t need to belong, he simply was. It was unusual.

When Ms. Vanderox finally retreated, her expression carefully schooled but her eyes betraying her intrigue, the man caught the bartender’s eye. He raised his glass, that polite, practiced smile still lingering on his lips.

Fine whiskey, he said. 

Glad you enjoy it.

The man set the glass down, still nearly full. Busy night, ain’t it?

Always is at these kinds of events.

Mm. Ya’d be the one to know, always workin’ these typa things.

Of course. Comes with the job.

The man stood, straightened his jacket, and gave a faint nod. Good whiskey, good company, he said, tapping the counter. Thank you for your time.

And just like that, he was gone.

The bartender watched as he slipped through the crowd, moving like a shadow, unnoticed and unremarkable. He glanced at the glass the man had left behind, untouched except for the faintest smudge where his fingers had gripped it. Again, how unusual.

He rubbed his mustache again, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. The man had been here, but it felt as though he hadn’t. Like he was a figment of his imagination, an idea given form and then just as quickly snatched away. The bartender turned back to the bar, pouring another drink for another careless guest. Again and again. As he did, he glanced around the room once more, half-expecting to see the man leaning against the banister or perched on another stool.

But the man was gone.

And for the first time that evening, the bartender clearly heard the pendulum in the ballroom through the racket that hid it before. 

Tick, tick, tick.

And still, nobody questioned why the man was there or who might have invited him. He moved as a shadow, there one moment, gone the next, leaving only faint impressions of his presence. Guests would spot him from the corner of their eye, lingering by the staircase or leaning against the polished banister, but when they turned to look, he was already somewhere else. 

When the clock struck midnight, though, he was unmistakable.

He stepped onto the dance floor with a girl in a dress as red as a drop of blood against fresh snow. Her dress was by far the finest dress out of every woman at the party. The elegant red gown, long and flowy luxurious fabric, pooled around her ankles. Surely it was a satin, maybe silk spun cloth, framing her figure. The crowd parted instinctively, watching as the two moved together in impossible synchronicity.

Their movements were a quiet spectacle, their steps so fluid they might have been inhuman. Around them, the other dancers faltered, feet tripping over themselves as if the room itself had forgotten the rhythm. And for what, too? A pair of unknown people shocking the room to such great lengths? It was unheard of! Had they met before? Who could say?

The man’s bowler hat cast a shadow over his eyes, making it impossible to tell if he was watching her or the crowd. Or both. Horrendous, the elites whispered, but their disdain hushed into silence as they watched, encaptivated by this faceless man. 

Nobody knew him and nobody found out. At last, it was four, and the guests began to trickle out. Heels clicked against marble, laughter faded into the crisp night air. The ballroom, once brimming with life, was now an empty echoing room. Only a handful remained, Ms. Vanderox among them, nursing the remnants of her wine. The pink boa lay discarded on a chair, its owner had long since left, though her whispers lingered like the echoes in the ballroom. Ms. Vanderox looked down at herself, her pale fingers froze mid-motion, gripping the delicate stem of her glass. Heavens!

Her bangles, those cherished silvery bands, soft as a hundred dollar bill and unmistakably hers, were gone. Her gaze swept the room, her brow furrowing. Impossible. She would have felt them slip, heard the gentle clink of coins in a purse as they fell. They couldn’t have simply vanished. Her eyes landed on the maroon barstools.

A strange unease pricked at her skin. The man, too, was nowhere to be seen. Not by the staircase where he’d leaned earlier, nor at the bar where he’d swirled his whiskey with practiced ease. It was as if he had evaporated into the night, leaving behind nothing but Ms. Vanderox’s tempted mind. He had surely known what he was doing, giving her half answers and disappearing around every corner, but didn’t have the human decency to relieve her of this new burden. Alas, she turned away from the fleeting memories and the man’s shadow that still cast over the room. Her fingers instinctively sought the absent bangles, tracing her bare wrist.

Jewelry didn’t just disappear, and accusations weren’t her style; not without proof. Yet the unease lingered in her naked arms and unasked questions. Ms. Vanderox drained her wine, the last bitter drop settling in her throat. 

Oh! What a peculiar surprise.

The girl in the red dress stood alone on the dance floor, her gown pooling like blood at her feet. She must have been the last guest at the party. Her gaze was distant, her hands clasped together as if trying to hold onto something not there. Someone asked her name, but the girl only smiled faintly, as if the question could make her laugh. Perhaps it could, just like the man.

The girl turned, her dress whispering against the floor, and made her way to the grand doors. The air seemed to shift as she passed, a chill running down Ms. Vanderox’s spine. The girl paused at the threshold, glancing back only once, her eyes meeting Ms. Vanderox’s for the briefest of moments. There was something there, she supposed a warning of sorts. Something to say don’t follow me, you'll regret it. With the girl’s head tilted slightly, just enough for Ms. Vanderox to catch the faintest glint of gold at her ear, she noticed a small hoop earring she knew hadn’t been there before. 

And then, the girl too, was gone.

Later, when the staff began clearing the room, one of them found the man’s bowler hat resting on the corner of the pendulum. It was perfectly ordinary. Worn, with a faint smudge of dust along the brim. It felt intentional how the only thing left behind by a man with such talent in the art of disappearing was the most noticeable item on his person. The bartender picked it up, turned it over, and laughed. Inside, etched faintly along the inner rim, were three words: Time well spent.

Ms. Vanderox’s lips twitched into a smirk. A part of her wanted to ask, to pry, but she hesitated. These secrets, she decided, were better left unanswered. Rather than finding answers, sometimes it's best to explore the possibilities. She could respect a good thief, particularly one that gave her night some light.  

The great pendulum in the ballroom gave its final chime as the clock struck five.

Tick, tick, tick.