I walk into my kitchen and observe a short, grungy-looking woman balancing herself on a stool in order to reach a pot simmering on the stove. My ever faithful servant: Janice. She is to be the first sad soul I deign to tell of my invitation.
"About damn time," she snaps, shoving her tattered sleeves further up her arm as she stirs the contents of the pot aggressively. "Shoulda been invited long ago, if yer askin me. Rich gal like you never mount to nothin, but I betcha the king'll make use of yer." Honestly. Why didn't the woman let me buy her a new blouse?
"Janice," I reply patiently, "What did you use the extra money I gave you last week for? You look dreadful in that." She grumbles something foul, wiping her nose on what is left of her sleeve. I smile. I have this odd soft-spot for the dribbling old maid. She's been in my family for years, and seeing as I have no family left, I suppose she more or less fills an emotional void.
Janice trumpets her nose into the front of her blouse and continues stirring, her scowl carved onto her face like stonework.
Well, I did say more or less.
After instructing her to save the soup for later (who eats soup for breakfast?), and knowing that I'm not to get anything close to the teary-eyed goodbye I crave from her, I snatch an apple from a basket and walk out of the kitchen, through the back door, and into the usual hubbub of street life. A straggly orange cat darts out of my path and into a dim alley as I leisure my way down the middle of the thoroughfare. Wow, quite the crowd already.
"Hellooo. Anybody home?" Silence. It wasn't as if I expected an answer, but the lack of noise still succeeds in depressing me. I crunch into my apple to fill in the quiet. Only months ago, these streets were crawling with people. Not anymore. Now everybody sticks to their homes, petrified of being seen by the wrong person.
I dig a hand further into my vest pocket and continue the trek, sensible shoes kicking up dust in my wake. After about ten minutes, I enter a new neighborhood. The houses here are significantly smaller than the ones from my own locality, but they possess a quaint kind of charm. I saunter up to the white door of a particularly adorable home, throw the apple core aside, and knock on it.
It opens almost immediately, and I am thrust inside. "Would you calm yourself? No one's even out there!" The door clicks shut.
"If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: You never know who is out there. Curfew doesn't end till eight!" An exasperated and freckled young man stares into my eyes, squeezing my shoulder and beseeching me to see reason. I raise my gaze to the textured ceiling.
"I know, I know. You hate the knocking." I look at him. "But I had to say goodbye." His brown eyes grow wide.
"You-you got an invitation?"
"Yes." He lets his hand fall and curses under his breath.
"How long?"
"I have to be there by nine tomorrow morning." He curses again, this time louder.
"Don't give you much time, do they?"
"Suppose not." A pause.
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." He nods, and we stand in the entryway for a brief moment. Finally, he motions me to follow him through the hall. We end up in the living room, where he falls into his favorite over-stuffed armchair. I take my usual place: the right side of the couch. The room radiates pink, floral-print, and doilies. Being here makes me wish my own home wasn't so modern. It's so precious—like a dollhouse.
"You do that every time."
"What?" I say, snapping to attention.
"Look around like some...I don't know. Like you're enchanted. Grandma would've loved you." I shrug.
"I can't help myself. It's all so…cute." I trace the flower pattern on my armrest with a finger. He rolls his eyes. "I am a girl, Banks."
"A girl with the most horrible fashion sense I've ever seen—really. What are you wearing?"
"I like it, and it's comfortable. That's all that matters. Anyway, they're my pajamas." The latter was a lie. He knows this. "But can we talk about something else? I want our last conversation to be a little less judgmental than our majority." Banks shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
"It-it doesn't have to be our last. You might come back—"
"Banks. No. Don't even think like that." I say this for his own good. I've only met him recently—a few weeks ago—but already a tightening friendship has formed. Nevertheless, hardly anyone ever came back from the Parties, and I wasn't about to let him hope. Banks nods, rubbing his hands together pensively.
"Look, I said I'm sorry, but I'm not sorry for you. I'm sorry for myself. I'm losing a good friend." I flash a slight smirk.
"I'm sorry too…but mostly for myself." He cracks a smile at this, and I grin back.
"You seem to be holding up pretty well, Anna. I mean, considering…" I shrug.
"I have a strange mourning process. Give me a few weeks, and I'll be bawling like a baby." He offers a slow, agreeable nod, and I know what it means. You don't have a few weeks.
"So. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be uh…making preparations?"
"I told Janice about fifteen minutes ago. I imagine she has my suitcase packed and her future living arrangements all sorted by now." He shakes his head, aghast.
"I don't understand that woman. You offer her a home, decent wage, you treat her well—"
"Doesn't mean she has to like me, Banks." At this point, I'm going on the defensive.
"And you even defend the miserable hag! I don't understand either of you—you or her. You're so weird." I shrug again, studying the wallpaper nearest me—fluffy kittens. Too cute…
"Anna." The inflection on my name causes me to turn, and I shoot him a self-righteous eyebrow raise. I can see him struggling not to roll his eyes, but he masters himself. "Listen. I know you said that it can't be helped, but…I have to. We're going shopping—the merchants are out now, eh? We'll get you everything you need for the Party—my gift. If it ends badly, well…at least I can say I gave you all the edges I could."
"Banks…"
"Sorry, what was that?" Already he was at the entrance of the hallway, wallet in hand. "Curfew's just ended. Let's go."
I rise out of my seat, speechless for a moment. Finally, I manage, "Thank you. It means a lot." He smiles thinly, motioning to the front door. I follow.
It does mean a lot. My heart quails at the knowledge that I actually possess a friend as good as him.
His gesture will be pointless in the grand scheme of things, but it's nice all the same.
The dead have no use for Party favors.
