I started this story at least five years ago. I love my parents and I mostly enjoy their parties, but as a very shy and single introvert, I often feel left out. I thought about what I wished would happen, and that lead to the first half of this story. I never got around to finishing it until today.
The Party
By Emma Redmer
She sighed, standing in the corner with a drink in her hand. What was she doing here? She didn’t know anyone here. She never knew anyone at her parents’ parties. They were all her parents’ friends and her siblings’ friends. Never HER friends. Her friends didn’t live close enough to come to parties. Most of them wouldn’t even if asked anyway. They weren’t any more party people than she was.
The book she read on shyness said she should try to make conversation. How could she make conversation with people she didn’t know? She knew some of the neighbors and a few people, but not well enough to make conversation with them. She found it so much easier to watch cartoons with the kids, or play with the babies. Kids and babies didn’t want to make conversation. They just wanted to do something. They didn’t expect you to be pretty or amusing or fun to be around.
She stared at her soda. Most of the people at this party were drinking, having a good time. She didn’t drink. She’d tried in college, but it only took a few cocktails to make her sloshed. She had to take herself home and didn’t particuarly feel like being sloshed while doing it, even though she lived down the street.
She wished she were like everyone else. No one else was having any problems talking to people. Of course, everyone knew one another. She’d lived near her stepfather and mother for a while, but moved back here just a year before. Who WERE these people? How did one get to know them? What did they like? Where did they go for fun? They wouldn’t like her. She wasn’t fun. She wasn’t pretty. She was a cashier in a dull grocery store, not like all of these normal local people who worked in normal offices. What she wouldn’t give to be them! She hadn’t gone to college to work in a grocery store.
She was so lost in her worries, she didn’t notice someone walk up behind her. “Penny for your thoughts?” a soft, husky voice asked.
She whirled around. “Don’t startle me like that!”
She hadn't seen him here before. He was of medium height, with wavy dark hair. "You seemed kind of lost." She noticed he had a can of diet cola and a plate with two slices of cake.
"I'm not lost." She turned to the window. "I'm just..." What was she? Hiding, she thought. Feeling sorry for herself.
He joined her at the window. "Nice view. Your dad has a nice place."
She nodded at the river. "He does." They continued to just stare at the river for a few minutes, neither saying a word. He ate his cake. She sipped her can of soda.
He finally broke the ice. "Do you come here often?"
"Probably not as often as I should." She frowned. "Who are you? Are you a friend of my parents?"
"Oh." He looked at his cake. "I'm, uh, new here. Just moved in a few weeks ago. I'm a kindergarten teacher during the season. Right now, I'm waiting tables at that little Italian place on Fourth Street."
"It must be wonderful to be a teacher. You're lucky to have such a rewarding job." She looked outside. "I'm not that lucky."
"I do like working with the kids." He frowned. "I just wish I could find something better to do when school isn't in session. I really don't like being a waiter. It's back-breaking work, and it's easier for me to deal with kids than with adults."
She gave him a wan smile. "Me too. I know what to say with kids. With adults, it's different."
"I'd love to write," he said wistfully. "Maybe kids' stories. I have a bunch in a file drawer at home. It's just...it's easy to write, but I'm not so good at selling things."
"I know exactly what you mean. I have stories I've written, but selling them is scarier." She smiled. "I didn't think there was anyone else around here who wanted to write. No one ever understood how I felt about it."
"It's my favorite talent."
"It's my outlet."
He nodded. "I'd go crazy if I couldn't get my thoughts out on paper."
"Do you write a journal?"
"Every day."
"Me too."
He set his untouched plate of cake on the window ledge. "How would you like to meet at the coffee house on West Warrington Avenue and talk writing? Maybe tomorrow around 4, after my shift lets out?"
She smiled gently. "I think I'd like that. I work early tomorrow. I'll be long off by then."
He turned a little red. "By the way, my name is Scott."
"I'm Sarah."
He looked at the water again. "I'm not really much of a party person. I met these people a few days ago. They invited me to get to know the neighborhood. It's just..." He looked around at the crowded room. "It's too much, you know?"
"I know. I don't know half these people. I don't have too many friends here."
"Neither do I."
She looked at her watch. "I have to get going. I have work tomorrow." Her hazel eyes just barely looked at his. "See you tomorrow?"
He gave her a small, shy smile. "Yeah." He nodded. "It was nice talking to you."
She gave him a smile back. "You too."
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