Party
Animal
by
C.B. Anderson
The silences were
awkward, but the
conversations
were even worse.
Much better had
the empty spaces
been left unfilled;
instead -- as
if the fate of
nations
depended on the
spoken word --
not one oasis
remained where
weary ears might
find relief. The
warm hors
d'oeuvres were
distributed by
women dressed
like penguins,
and most of them,
as later on was
learned, were
former
casino dancers
trimmed with far
too many sequins
or wanton ladies
of the night.
The host, Italian
by most accounts,
would pinch each
bottom as he passed,
and
foreseeing his
approach I snared
a lamb medallion
and stood aside,
already watching
when he fastened
himself -- much
like an albatross
that of a sudden
has lost the gift
of flight -- atop
a helpless server
too shocked or
too exhausted
to resist. The
blood in
my veins began
to pulse to the
beat of the fervor
enacted right
in front of me
upon the table
where all the
dips and cheeses
had been placed.
His elbow,
with which he
braced against
the yaw his now
quite able
slim vessel torqued,
was in a wedge
of Asiago;
her head was cushioned
by some fresh
baguettes and
wobbled
as madly as a
globe beset with
superpowers
competing for
supremacy. I stared,
and gobbled
some prawns until
a woman hidden
in the flowers
emerged remarking
how the tone had
changed and, really,
to keep in step
a few more drinks
were what she
needed.
Before too long
our talk became
more touchy-feely,
so I suggested
we depart, and
she acceded.
Inside the cab,
I asked about
what wasn't noted
on the invitation.
A diplomat, she
told me,
an international
relations expert,
voted
Best in Class
-- throws great
parties... now
shut up and hold
me.
©
2007
by C.B. Anderson
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