Grace
“So, are you gonna tell me about this sweater or what?” asks Dom, touching my shoulder.
“What, this? Well, I can tell you it’s made from one hundred percent, real Muppet fur, and I definitely didn’t get it out of the lost and found.”
He shakes his head, stoic Dom, serious as always. We’re at one of the high-top tables taking a break from dancing.
“Can I tell you a theory I’ve been working on all night?” he asks.
“Well, this should be interesting,” I say, aware that I’m flirting with Dom, and also aware that I’ve missed flirting.
He glances down at my legs. Zoe was right, people have been checking them out all night. I’d sooner do ten luge shots than admit this to my mom, but dressing up for the first time in nearly a year has been nice. Turns out when you hide, no one looks at you, and it’s exciting to be seen again.
“There’s a dress under that thing, I assume, right?” he asks.
“Insightful,” I say. “You must attend a lot of parties.”
He smiles. “Well, I’m guessing it’s a real showstopper.”
I sip whatever this drink is that Zoe brought me as heat rises from beneath my cardigan.
“But then you got here tonight,” he says, “and your showstopper of a dress made you self-conscious, so you grabbed the first thing you could find to cover up. Am I right?”
I shake my head. “Not even close.”
“You sure?”
“This was the fourth thing I found,” I say. “There was also a very nice wool mitten.”
His eyes move to my chest. I’ve been neurotically closing and reclosing this stupid sweater every twenty seconds all night, but it’s fallen open now just enough.
“I watch it happen every night at the Embassy,” he says.
“Couples come in, and it’s a big deal—like date night.
Women put on the nicest thing they’ve got, the thing they claim they never have an occasion to wear.
And they look fucking great. But then they cover up the second they sit down.
A shawl or a Muppet sweater like this or their date’s jacket. It’s a shame.”
“Maybe you just need to turn the thermostat up over there,” I say. “Ladies, Dom…we get chilly.”
He nods to the window beside us, which is fogged over from the party’s collective heat, and I think, Hello, desire, my old friend. We’re as close now as we were in his wine cellar. This feels closer, though, because that was a lifetime ago.