Dinner Party

The saving grace was that the vast majority of the chips were in tact. It was a small and silent victory I took for myself. The rest I put firmly in the negative column. Even if I had just polished my cowboy boots it was clear that I was misinformed as to the dress code. After putting the chips and salsa on the counter I hurried myself into the bathroom, tucked in my shirt, combed my fingers through my hair, splashed some water on my face to snap out of it. These people were going to be my family.

Emily was waiting for me when I got out, wondering what was wrong. I hadn't said anything to anyone, just ran straight for the toilet. I told her I didn't use the toilet. I don't know why I had to fight her on this.

I was still getting used to dinner parties. They weren't a thing I did, or went to, or got. I've grabbed pizza and beer, I've cooked, but here I am showing up with a five dollar contribution and the thing is catered. By a staff wearing nicer shirts than the ones I own. Emily said I was being silly. And she was right. I was out of place, and being out of place makes me feel silly.

I walked in to greet her parents, their neighbors, an aunt and an uncle and some people from church. People that had known her her whole life. They smiled and shook my hand, they asked me what I did and how we met and where did I get those boots. They were my father's, I told them. They liked the lie.

Dinner came and went, people left, Emily and I were on the couch, sinking into it. Did I have fun, she asked me, did I like these people. And I hadn't even realized until then that I did. I opened the chips and popped the salsa's lid. I wasn't hungry, but I thought it would be nice.