dinner party

  by - Siddarthareddy chitiki

Credit: Emanuel Feruzi

The women laugh, stupidly, before the joke’s even finished — 
but they don’t taste much like laughter.
One’s breasts jiggle like jelly doughnuts;
another gulps a mouthful of pills
from a tiny glass conch.
Their faces are pulled tight over the mortgage and
a growing knot of dread but there are a lot of i love yous and
hugs around the throat.
Music croons dramatically over glasses filled high — 
so high most are splashing bullet holes into the carpet.

Upstairs, someone else’s husband twists around a white dress
pulled up to the neck. He’s hungry and her skin is buttered
by the 2000 thread count and long strands of sweat
painting the bed like canvas, his wallet tumbles to the floor and
the cat scoops it up.

In the bathroom, a woman looks at her bloodshot eyes
wonders if anyone’s thinking about her.
The water’s still running but she doesn’t seem to notice.
Instead, she’s scowling at a sprig of hair curling out of her barrette,
and then at the window, streaked with nighttime and fingerprints.
She wonders if she could fit through it.

Across the way, a daughter catches her gaze, and tries to mimic
that kiss in the mirror.
She pouts in the reflection of a liquor bottle she’s stolen
from her mother, then takes a gulp of acid just like her father.
Her stomach lurches up her dinner onto a mound of red
sequins.

By the time the sun starts to rise, only one couple is left,
summarizing their lives to an empty room.
The woman slips on the heels that hurt her ankles and her husband
kisses the host a little too close
to the mouth.
By the time they’re at their car, the music turns off and there’s nothing left
but a dirty bed sheet. They don’t see the eyes watching them from the roof.