A Sorry Soiree

I arrive at the party, for my dear eyes to be instantly insulted by an array of cheap, catwalk-copy dresses, on the arms of ill-fitting suits which I imagine cost less than my haircut. Who let these people in? I wouldn’t dream of doing business with a man who buys his suits off a rail. I eye the room for a familiar face, whether it be to avoid or approach. My associate, as always, has failed to keep control of time, leaving me to face this sorry soiree alone and I despise him for it. I reluctantly join a bunch of no-hopers who were tiresomely insistent I join them. I imagine they are desperately hoping some of my success will rub off on them. A weasel faced worm with a sorry excuse for a moustache reaches a scrawny hand toward my clenched fist and simultaneously gives me an electric shock. His sweaty laugh exposes rows of crooked, yellow teeth and I try not to be sick. He offers me a needy excuse, that it must have been his watch, when I know it was his polyester jacket. His orange girlfriend is clinging on to me for dear life in a shameless bid for freedom from the weasel. I politely but firmly remove her like a leech, concerned her tan has rubbed off on to my sleeve.

She seems to find the whole thing hilarious and continues to stroke my arm. The weasel is less amused and eyes his possession with diabolical intent. I jerk my hand up and tend my immaculate hair to shrug off the girl. I leave them to scream at each other whilst their friends look rightly ashamed to be in their proximity.

The place is a dump, and is desperate to disguise the fact. The gaudy sunset mural is fooling no one, the gold-plate finish is flaking off all the fixtures and I practically have to peel my foot off the filthy carpet with each step.

A whiney voice calls out my name and shouts his own from a table in the corner. I head over to a man, who’s brash persona over email correspondence leaves me highly unimpressed by the physical reality. This guy was supposed to be big league. I shake what feels like limp lettuce, disguised as a hand, before discreetly patting the clammy residue it leaves, back onto the arm of its owner. I reluctantly sit down, eyeing the room for opportunities of escape. I spy my tardy associate at the other end of the room, schmoozing with an attractive blonde, I despise him all the more.