Even if I saw these people every day at the office, they were company. And there'd be non-office people there too; maybe I'd meet someone interesting; Angela's attempts at match-making fruitful...
I ended up going as a mime. It was all I could come up with, given the limitations of my closet (and my imagination). I put on a black leotard, painted my face white, drew one little beneath my left eye, shoved my hair up under a black beret. It'd do. Maybe I wouldn't have to talk to anyone.
It was getting late, by the time I got out the door, so I took the bus instead of walking. The other passengers looked at me — or tried not to look at me.
The guy who answered Angela's door immediately yelped, "Wait! You're trying to tell me something, I can tell!" He was dressed as a scarecrow, big floppy pants and a raggedy shirt with clumps of straw sticking out. "Just let me figure it out!" he said, waving his hands around. "I know!" he announced, "you're trapped in a box!" and he chortled to himself.
"Not even close," I replied and gingerly slipped past him. He stared after me with a puzzled expression on his face, as if his straw-filled brains couldn't fathom how I'd so effortlessly broken character and verbalized.
I found Angela in the kitchen. "Lisa!" she cried delightedly, as if we hadn't just spoken a few hours earlier. She was dressed 18th century, big skirts and even bigger hair. I wondered whether she was supposed to be anyone specific, like Marie Antoinette or Josephine, or just generic 18th century. She was fussing over trays with crackers and smoked oysters on them. "I wasn't sure if you were going to come."
"Well," I smiled, "here I am."
Angela laughed as if the reply were witty. Or maybe she was just drunk. Which may have been the case; she moved rather lurchingly away from the counter to embrace me. Unless it was simply difficulty maneuvering in hoop skirts.
"I want you to go out there," she said as she hugged me, "and have a good time. Lately...," she pulled back, and, laughing again, "oh, you're a mime!" as if only just realizing. "You're so clever. Here, take one of these trays."
I followed her into the crowded living room, set the tray on a table already laden with snacks and dips, pretzels, potato chips, sliced vegetables, hummus, and several salsas. "Help yourself to punch," Angela cried, as she plunged into the crowd like a good hostess with her tray of ors d'oeuvres. I did so: Sipping it, I glanced around the room,
looking for people I knew. The office regulars, the usual friends of Dennis and Angela, a smattering of unfamiliar faces. I looked for Dennis but didn't see him. He and Angela always coordinated their costumes (their lives); I was mildly curious to see who he was, Napoleon or Louis XIV.
Angela swings by and, seeing me surveying the crowd, says, "Sorry, but I kind of had to invite him."
"Who?"
"Trevor," she says, "of course."
I hadn't even noticed him but of course there he is across the room, with a group of guys, most of them also from the Design department, clutching glasses of beer in their hands and no doubt debating the merits of MMX or 800 bit rez or some computer related thing about which I knew next to nothing.
I find myself crossing the room towards him.
SOMETIMES I DO NOT UNDERSTAND MY PREDELICTION FOR MASOCHISM.