Long Tables, pt. 7

The crap started at seven. Molly had on this yellow number. She looked the way a bus does going down the road. Picture a bunch of screaming brats inside. Me. I’m the hatchback driving behind and stopping at all the stops.

We were at the door, both of us, like we expected it was going to be somebody remotely exciting on the other side. Like her friends are the kind of people that can really blow your hair back.

Me because I couldn’t wait for a drink.

I remember Molly gave me this look, with her eyes she was saying don’t be an idiot. I was doing my best impression of happy. Also I did that sort of shrug, the one that says who me.

The way we are, it’s pretty stupid. Molly and me, sometimes we go whole days without ever saying two words. We’re always finding new ways to avoid talking. It’s like that maxim, if you don’t have anything nice to say.

The guests all came together in the same car. It was two couples, and they sucked equally. Molly did the introductions, how do you do pleased to meet you, and I tried making myself look taller. In long pants nobody can tell you’re standing on tiptoes. It’s not that I’m too short. Something you should know about us, we’re like James and the Giant Peach. Molly is the peach.

I don’t know how else to describe it.

Kelly’s husband, Ashley, I didn’t like him from the start. He had one of those really loose, el cheapo handshakes that men should never have. The kind of handshake where you don’t know what to do with it. He looked the way a teenager does on a first date, after realizing his zipper was down the whole time. You could tell he wanted to be anywhere else.

The other guy, Moose, that’s what they call him. He’s the one going with Carrie. Moose is like a grain silo, with arms and legs sticking out. Picture Paul Bunyan, or the old Brawny Man. Molly said, “Moose is in computers.”

I thought about him crammed in a Volkswagen, some plastic flowers on the dash, doing house calls and fixing busted microprocessors with a tiny screwdriver.