The Facade

I just happened to be positioned behind her as she mingled at a cocktail party, a drink in her right hand so she could be demonstrative with her ringed left. She was halfway through telling a woman ten years younger about the roses her husband had bought herfor her birthday and the "just precious" construction paper card her son made her in art class, concluding with "and the he hugged me and told me I was the beautifulest mommy in the whole world!". I just shook my head, thinking about the last time I'd seen her - checking her re-applied lipstick in my passenger-side visor mirror before she returned to work. I offered her a piece of gum as she reached to open the door. But her decade-long marriage must have improved over the last three months. I took my time pouring myself a drink as she continued her soliloquy, no audience in particular, oblivious to my proximity. Now talking about her job, how embarassed she was when her boss singled her out for praise for her "invaluable contribution" and he "wouldn't know what to do without her". I reflexively shook my head, knowing her role to be a faceless administrative drone, reviewing paperwork and spell-checking other's work. I was courteously apologetic as I brushed by, spilling my drink down her dress, name-brand but purchased during offseason clearance. Her face went from shock to anger to recognition to surprised to unsure to uncomfortable over the next few seconds. Had I overheard her well-rehearsed script, her smoky mirror? She looked down to the floor, then back at me and cautiously gestured to the back door. I brushed some invisible lint from my lapel, grabbed the hand of a younger woman and walked away.