Fourteen
It seems I’ve been sitting here, alone, by this dark window for a long time. I remember people. Voices, conversations, interaction. I think there was someone here with me for a while, but I can’t quite remember. Looking around the deserted car, I suddenly feel anxious. Am I the only one left?
Just then, a door opens in the distance and before it closes, the unmistakable sound of subdued laughter and smooth jazz comes drifting towards me. Why was I not invited? I get up and make my way towards the party: I'll be damned if I miss this.
When I arrive, everyone’s already there: the doctor is ordering a tray of jello-o shots for his already intoxicated sidekick, the head cleric – stoic as ever – accepts a virgin mai tai from the butler, while the woman from the 36th floor is challenging the janitor to a tequila slammer race. Even the golden-haired elevator boy, thin to the point of emaciated, is here, huddled up next to the jukebox drinking diet coke straight from the can.
I make my way towards the bar, eager to down an iced daiquiri or two under the auspices of my old friend the barman, when someone blocks my way. “You finally decided to grace us with your presence – how delightful!” The housekeeper is here: big, smiling, unyielding. “We’ve opened our vintage champagne, dusty port and cloudy ale for you. I personally oversaw the slaughtering of a calf and a handful of ducks for some quick finger food. Even as we speak, they are polishing the fine dinnerware. Let it be known no expenses were spared.” She makes a little pirouette and says in confidence: “Once we're done here, there's Mongolian vodka and vat-grown oysters in the VIP room. Not to mention the quick pickled calf meat and duck tartar. After that... Well the night is young, isn't it. I shan't play all my cards just yet.” She giggles and claps her hands once, hard. From out of nowhere, a faceless servant appears with a tray of glasses. I grab one, but as I lift it to my mouth, something feels off. Is there a foul smell beneath that heady bouquet? Are the bubbles just a little too lively? I'm not sure. What I do know is
that I open my hand and let go of the glass that the sound of it breaking against the marble floor is surprisingly loud that everything falls silent around me
“I think that you are going to find that that was very ill-advised.” The housekeeper is too close, her breath sour and raw. Her voice low and distorted, she pronounces every word very carefully, as if to make sure I remember every syllable.
She takes a step back, watches me in disbelief, then clicks her tongue: “Try to play the part next time, would you? You silly little man.”
And with that she’s gone. I remember seeing her later, playing rock, paper, scissors with the janitor and the elevator boy, but I don’t think we ever spoke again.