Party Flash

Everything was opposite of her wedding. Black fondant on the cake with white swirls, sweeping black lace dress, dried flower bunches strewn throughout the room and her best friends all in garishly colored clubbing dresses. She was particularly proud of the cake-toppers she had made: hand-painted porcelain figurines of herself and Jim, with her figure pushing him off the edge of the three-tiered confection.

Everybody seemed to be having a wonderful time, herself included. It was common knowledge that he wasn’t a good husband. A fantastic lay, that was certain, but worthless as a business man and partner and he liked sharing his bedroom prowess with too many women. Thus, the divorce party.

Kathleen staggered up to her, martini in hand. “Are you guys exchanging anti-vows? I hear that’s super popular now.”

“Hell no, I’m not exchanging any more promises with that jackass. With his track-record, he’s liable to just break those as well and when I actually want him to leave me alone…”

“Fair enough!” She drained her glass. “Love the cake, can we cut it now?”

“Sure, I think it’s been admired long enough.” She swept her train over her arm and made her way to the food table.

“Your attention, your attention please!” The crowd quieted down and the DJ turned down the music, currently “Get Your Hands Off My Woman” by The Darkness. She had specified a play list as confrontational as possible. “As you all may know, today is the day when I am officially divorced from Jim.” As the crowd roared, she tipped his figurine entirely off the cake and watched with satisfaction as his horror stricken face shattered on her hardwood floor.

She plunged her hand into the side of the cake and pulled out a handful, holding it up like a trophy. “So lets indulge a little!” The cheered and desceneded on the cake, everyone reaching in to grab a bit. The new divorcee bent down to pick up the broken figuring of her ex-husband and worked her way out of the crowd, everyone congratulating her as she passed.

She finally found herself at the edge of the room, and slipped behind the decorative screen as her friends fought for a bite of the cake. Charlene was trying to maintain some sort of order until Kathleen shoved a handful in her face and it was a true free-for-all after that.

Alone for the moment, she gently arranged the figure of Jim on the windowsill facing the next apartment building, using the figurine of herself to prop him up. She allowed herself a single tear before brushing the crumbs off her face, straightening her bodice and rejoining the party.

 

1 Comment

  1. JD

    I cannot hear music the way he does, and he says he won’t teach me.
    Every time I “please” and “won’t you” he dismisses with a “Gwan nah, chal.”
    Go on, now, child. Play the music.
    Every week, something different. I pick up whichever London sound flows in my window, trap it in a digital bell jar, and lay it out with electronic pins on a velvet of layered bass, cut it down to a track, and bring it in.
    “Gwyan batter me earhole, rudebway.”
    Every track I’ve cut is consumed whole, a man starving for audible treats. Full volume on the cobbled-together speakers in his tiny west-end stall-shop-shanty.
    Batter me, hit me, blow me away.
    In my mind’s eye I see his frail dark body being lifted and tossed by thunderclouds of bass, treble slithering between two cells like electricity, touching, stabbing, snaking between hits. 808 storm-cells tossing him, all willing, between their monstrous paws, some with frantic haste and others languid, uncaring steps.
    And he turns it up, closes his eyes, and throws himself on it.
    And he’s smiling and humming and cheering and swaying by turns.
    “Gwan rudebwoy. Gwan nah.”
    I cannot hear music the way he does, and he will not teach me.
    But I can close my eyes and feel it, letting myself move with the sounds.
    “Gwan nah, chal.” Go on, child. Be in the music. I am.

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