At Least They're Committed

She’s in her semi-borrowed-best dress. A cast-off from someone far lovelier than she. Not formal, mind you, just something that makes a strong, sophisticated statement, or so she tells herself as she wills herself through the entrance.

“Heeey!” he bounces over and greets her. He behaves as if she’s interesting, more intriguing than she feels she is or could ever be. She’s mystified; he’s kind, grabbing her hand with long fingers and escorting her into the ballroom.

“Jill, Jill, Jill!” . . . they call as she’s surrounded by friends. So many, so-called! So much faux kindness that she doesn’t understand. He lets her loose and she watches him fade, smiling, into the throng; his eyes bright and sad as they push her away. She doesn’t understand or maybe she does but maybe he doesn’t want her to and so maybe she doesn’t want to.

Two men stand before her, smiling, antsy. Her dress is ruby and she only now questions its implications; she looks down to ensure she’s not exposed. Yet their eyes beg for something else, not lust, not desire . . . trust. Affirmation. Meaning, maybe? Such a thing?

A long breath, back straight, high silver shoes falling one in front the other she walks past them and dozens of others. Another walks up . . . intentional, debonaire, striking and popular. His gaze tells one story; his body language another. “You OK?” he says sympathetically. “Um, sure,” she says, embarrassed by the attention.

“Do you need somewhere to go? Want to talk?”

“No.  Really, that’s all right. I’ll wait.”

She settles into a circular leather chair, surveys the subjects around her — all colorful characters on unwritten pages — glances one more time inside, and escapes.