The Party

Classic Red Mic - by Alameda821

I guess most of you felt the man is more adventurous than generous, so the result was:

“Do you want to come to a party?” (57%)

Missed the beginning? Read Part 1 and Part 2.

Part 3 – The Party

“Hey,” he said, suddenly deciding. “Do you want to come to a party?”

She looked him up and down. “What kind of party?” she said.

He took a small step towards her. “Oh, it’s just… it’s a charity thing. On St Martins Lane.”

In spite of the rain, he could feel the sweat starting to bead in his armpits. He was suddenly afraid of the girl. She looked so severe, her pale face revealing nothing. Hopefully she would say no. He imagined the long, silent walk to the hotel. He hadn’t felt so gauche since he’d been a teenager.

“A party on St Martins Lane?” she said. “Sounds rad. Maybe I’ll see you there.” And she strode off down the footpath, into the rain, into the dark.

He stared after her for a moment, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He turned and closed the car door.

He made his first glass of champagne last for almost an hour as he wandered around exchanging dry small talk with vaguely familiar acquaintances. He used to be much better at this. He was tired.

“I was at a gallery opening last week,” said a woman’s voice at his side. “And one of the guests suddenly did a strip show. I guess he was bored.”

He turned and was astonished to see the young woman from the doorway, still wearing her red hat and blue coat.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“You look bored, too,” she said. “I wonder what you do when you’re bored? Besides watching people eat sandwiches. Here, take this, will you?” She took off her coat and hat and handed them to him. She was wearing a simple black dress and she had hat hair.

She walked over to the DJ, whispered something to him and turned on the microphone. As the music faded, the crowd quietened down, and turned towards her.

[poll id=”4″]

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Nat Newman

Nat Newman is an award-winning writer of short stories, content, podcasts, feature articles, drunk text messages and, soon, a novella.


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