Going South: The Dinner Party

I push my half-eaten, mega slice of chocolate on chocolate cake away, thankful the god-forsaken evening is almost over. Bosley, next to me on one side of the massive dining table sits still and quiet, his face slightly pale, brows furrowed, obviously lost in thought while conversation continues to revolve around Damian, Bosley’s old college roommate. It’s not out of the ordinary for Bosley to be quiet, but something is different. Something …wrong.

“Well, let’s say we bring these dishes into the kitchen and give the boys some space. You mind, dear?” says Myra, Damian’s tall, dark and gorgeous wife. She stands and picks up her own plate, her black spandex capris and four inch high heels showing off her perfect figure. Damian and Myra belong together; both are hot, both know it.

If their we’re-more-successful-so-we-can-help-you attitude isn’t enough, the ‘dear’ sends me over the edge. I grit my teeth and smile. “Sure,” I say, collecting the remainder of the plates. Anything to speed things along. What’s next? Cigars and bourbon for the men, hair and make-up for the ladies?

I’m not entirely off. The kitchen door barely swings shut behind me and Myra starts in on the spiel.

“We’re having a sale on MAC products this week. Did I tell you?” She slides the one plate with two utensils she carried onto the marble countertop. Her shoes click across the stone floor as she walks. My rubber-soled slip-ons are silent.

I carefully lower my stack into the sink and turn on the water to start cleaning up.

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear,” she says, shooing me away from the sink. “We’ve got a maid for that.”

Oh right. How could I forget?

Grabbing me by the wrist with her cold, fake-finger-nailed hand, she leads me around the island and backs me onto a leather and cowhide stool. Then lifts my chin and turns my face towards the light. Yes, inspection time. My low-maintenance look bothers her …immensely. Her painted-on look bothers me too. I never mention it.

From …somewhere a metal case appears which opens to a tiered display of colors; powders, lipsticks, liners. Her gaze shifts from my face to the choices laid out next to us while I wonder what the guys are up to. I could just imagine Bosley, with his buzz cut, jeans and polo shirt, sitting in stark contrast to Damian – his hair tossed carefully into a mess over his ears, a goatee and trendy Armani suit just for lounging around. They’d probably be catching up on old times. It wasn’t often we got together with the Kosta’s.

“You know what?” I say as Myra comes at me with a powdered brush, “I’m all set.” I slide off the stool to one side and head for the dining room.

“Wait!”

I pause just a few feet from the door and turn back to look at her. Is that panic in her painted-up eyes? Is it really so bad that I don’t wear make-up? Or is it that she lost a sale?

“Come here.” One hand circles through the air, beckoning me towards her.

For some reason, I follow. With her hands on my shoulders, she twists me to face an ornate mirror on the wall. Dear God I look awful. Maybe she’s right…

“Don’t you see what potential you have?” She smiles over my shoulder at the mirror, her eyes on herself, I notice, rather than me.

Who am I kidding? My eyes are on her too. Smooth, straight brown hair, caramel skin, green eyes…

“You’ve got such rich, dark hair and fair skin.” Her hand strokes my hair as if I am her pet. “You could really play up that contrast. Won’t you just let me show you?”

Puppy dog eyes don’t work on me. And now that I feel like a Mastiff next to her, I decline, heading for the dining room again. There’s probably no hope anyway.

“Don’t ask a--” Bosley says as I push through the door. His face has color again. It is red. Bosley is sitting straight up in his chair, his body language screaming rejection of Damian who is now at his side. Damian puts on a dimpled grin and stands as Myra scurries in behind me.  

“Ladies! Welcome back.” He walks around the table, takes Myra under one arm and me under the other. “And so soon.” He kisses Myra, sending a red glow over my skin that I try to hide by looking away. Bosley seems to have no reaction.

“You ready to go, hun?” I dare ask. I usually leave it to Bosley to decide when it’s time to leave the Kosta’s. He knows I dread these dinners. I know he feels some eternal connection to Damian, though I can’t understand why.

“Yup,” Bosley says and stands up. “Thanks for dinner, Myra. It was wonderful.”

He knows Myra didn’t cook it.

“Alright, if you must go…” Damian says, letting Myra go but keeping one arm draped over my shoulders. “I’ll take you to your coats then.”

Yes, our coats. The ones that didn’t fit in the foyer closet because it was stuffed with Myra’s furs. Furs! Who wears furs? Apparently, Myra.

 “She’s been trying to convert you again, hasn’t she?” he asks after we pass the metal case still open on the island in the kitchen.

“Yeah.”

We continue down the long hall and into the spare bedroom, all the while his citrus and clove scent invading my senses.

“Don’t let her bother you,” he says as we step into the dark room. His hand lifts off my shoulder, leaving it noticeably colder, as he reaches for the switch on the wall behind me. I wait for the light. It doesn’t come. So I wait for my eyes to adjust to the faint glow spilling down the hall from the kitchen while I am conscious of his arm blocking me from behind.

“You’re a natural,” he says and I can barely make out his dimpled grin. Is he closing in on me or is it just my imagination? My heart races and my face heats up. Good thing it’s so dim.

“A natural what?” I say, slipping away from him into the dark room. I pray for light and wonder if my mind is playing tricks on me. Damian has always been …a flirt, but he’s never made such a bold move as a kiss.

The light comes on and the strange world I’d just visited a moment before disappears. Of course it was my imagination. Of course. I pick up our coats from the bed next to me and high-tail it out of there, unable to look him in the eye as I pass him in the doorway.

After hugs, good-byes and promises to get together sooner next time, we begin the forty-five minute drive home in silence. The muddled memory of Damian closing in on me plays over and over in my mind. What would Bosley think if he knew? But then, what is there to know? Nothing happened. And what is bugging Bosley? I know he’ll talk when he’s ready, but not knowing just kills me. How bad could it be? Does it have anything to do with Damian? I blush again. Good grief, no way I could talk about Damian right now. But… I hate to see Bosley upset.

~~~ Should Ana ask Bosley what’s bothering him? ~~~

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