He was the kind who hung around the walls, leaning
against a doorjamb here and there, skirting the edges of the room with an
intent look in his eyes. I had been watching him as he nursed a glass with a
splash of amber liquid; it pleased me that he did not add anything to his hard liquor.
I had witnessed too many men lurching towards my bathroom with their glasses of
rum and cola held precariously aloft. I shudder to think what the bathroom will
be like at the end of this party.
Back to Broody over there by the kitchen door; why did he
keep moving along the wall? He wasn't taking to anyone. He seemed to be trying
to catch the attention of a flamboyantly-dressed gyrating guest on the dance
floor. Ah, so he was KB’s friend. KB was metrosexual to excruciating heights.
He took fashion advice from gay guys and carried a manbag. He was also my best
friend in the world but picked up these random friends with startling
regularity. I would schedule a lunch date with him, burning to talk to someone
about whatever strife befell a 30-something-year-old and he would have invited
someone along. All his friends had names that ended with exclamation marks; you
know, Todd! Andrew! Siya! Lisa! It was quite exhausting to keep up with the
strays he collected.
So if Broody (!) was his one of his rescues, it would be
better to lose interest in him right now. Except now he has caught me staring
at him. Oh dear, my grandmother was renowned for her ‘eyes met across a crowded
room’ stories. Every man she ever fell in love with (before and after grandpa)
she had fallen in love with his eyes across a crowded room. That first exchange
of looks with Broody (!) was enough to convince me to believe one of my
grandmother’s stories. He might as well have reached out and grabbed me by my
hand and pulled me to him. Before the thought could register I was sashaying
across the crowded room, sucking my tummy in and daring him to look away from
me while I was headed for him. He didn't relinquish our look; his facial
expression didn't change as he calmly waited for me to reach him.
“Excuse me,” I moved around him and disappeared into the
kitchen.
Well, obviously I’m not the sex bomb I thought myself a
minute ago. I was sure I was going to go up to him and say something inane like,
“it’s rude to stare you know”. In the twenty or so steps it took to reach him,
I had concocted the entire conversation we were to have in my head. I would be
witty and funny and he would be suave and mysterious. On the last step I decided
it would be better if that conversation stayed in my head.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I muttered as I busied myself with
opening another bottle of red wine, which thankfully, was really running low on
the drinks table.
“I’ll open that for you if you’re having trouble,” said
an incredibly sexy voice behind me.
I turned around and there was Broody (!) leaning on the kitchen
counter. Maybe he had a balance problem that compels him to lean? Gently easing the cork out of the bottle I
smiled my hostess smile; “Thanks, I’ve got it.”
“So you’re the hostess?”
“Yes, I’m Angela,” I extended my hand.
“Pleased to meet you, I’m Steven” (!)? He had a rather perfunctory handshake.
“You came with KB right?” I already knew the answer to
that. I’m an idiot, and my dress is ugly, and I’m painfully single.
“Yeah, thanks for having me despite the lack of invite;
KB tends to drag people everywhere without much thought of whether or not he
ought to” he said, reaching out for all the world like it was his house and
plucking a wine glass somewhere above my head. I giggle nervously because I
probably knew KB better than him and didn’t want to confirm that he was indeed
a spare.
“I noticed earlier that you were drinking the red, so may
I pour you a glass?”
When had he noticed? Had I been laughing too loudly at
the time? Oh God! “No that’s alright, I’ve moved on to water, I monitor my alcohol
intake very strictly,” I said somewhat severely.
He blinked and focused a surveying look on my ample
curves. Oh fantastic, he is probably thinking ‘rightly so’. It was time to put
a stop to this entire botched flirtation. Steven (he didn’t sound like he pronounced
his name with an exclamation mark) was an attractive, sexy-voiced man and I was
way out of my depth. Witty was absent and funny had left the building; time to
return to hostess mode.
“”Let me take this bottle out to the party, I hope you
have a good night, let me know if you need anything,” I flashed a vague smile
and left him.
********************************************
“Great party as always angel,” boomed KB as he made for
the door, the last person to leave. At least he had the decency to help me
stack the dirty glasses in their crates and perfume some rudimentary cleanup
before leaving.
“What happened to Steven, I thought he came with you?” I
asked, trying to sound casual.
“HOHO!” he pounced. As I had been afraid he would.
“Got a little crush have we? Forget it sweetie, he’s so
boring I had to beg him to come to this party. Workaholic. Anyway, we came in separate
cars,” he blew me a kiss and shut the door.
Great, a boring workaholic is just what I had hoped he
would be. Actually, I didn’t mind a sedate guy, KB had cured me of party boys
when we were in our 20s and I would see him devastate girl after girl. And a
man who worked hard indicated that he was dedicated, focussed. Thinking I had
built Steven up way too much in my imagination, I began the mammoth task of
cleaning up after 30-plus heavily drinking people. It took an hour and a half
before I was finished. A quick shower and I was ready for bed; on a trip to get some water from the fridge I
went rigid.
Stuck on the day planner was a pink Post It from my own supply.
“I’d love to hear from you tomorrow, Steve.” His email
and cell number were written in uppercase.
