Wednesday, June 12, 2019

The Life of the Party

After six glasses of wine
and two whiskey sours
on an empty stomach
at the holiday party,
I was finally ready to tell my boss
exactly what I thought of her
and her paranoia, spying,
backstabbing, micromanagement,
harsh criticism, favoritism,
disorganization, and disloyalty.
I walked up to her as she cackled
at something unfunny the VP said,
her head thrown back,
all her professionally whitened teeth bared,
dirty martini in her right hand,
sparkly black cocktail dress showing off
her meticulously curated figure.
I stumbled slightly,
pointed my wavering index finger,
and began, “YOU…”
She stared at me with distaste,
as though a cockroach had just
scurried across the hors d’oeuvres.
I continued, “YOU…oop…”
then staggered away
to where I believed the bathroom was.
Craig tried to shepherd me there,
his arm around my shoulder,
and I told him,
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you,
you weasel?”
Except I was now speaking
my own invented language
with no translator.
I broke away from him,
whirled around,
and crashed
like a felled fairy tale giant
into the chocolate fondue fountain.
Crashing glass
Aimee, who never stops talking
about how she used to be a nurse,
rushed to my side,
shouting her credentials,
as I lay in the middle of the crime scene,
my hair drenched with milk chocolate
on a bed of strawberries, pound cake
and flattened marshmallows.

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