A Birthday Party
There’s a non-dance song on the speaker. A couple romances in the balcony. Four other conference in the corridor. What is the one who has been held hostage to do? He can’t be a part of the couple hugging and sharing feelings. One broken up, one fucked up. He can’t be a part of the conversation in the corridor wherein awkwardness is being discussed. He isn’t privy to them, to it. I want to go home, but the alcohol which has been my escape now prevents it. The party I was invited to now becomes a party I can’t uninvite myself from. The birthday is over, but waiting anymore is no more a celebration. I am not complaining. There’s nothing to complain about. Oaksmith, the host, the company, the music. None are unwelcoming at all. But they have stopped being welcoming. Nobody wants to admit that the party is over. The couple wants privacy. They are reeking of it. The director wants sleep. He stinks of it. The disfavoured wants time with her. The stench is palpable. R just wants to par