Fabulism-Draft 2

You are squashed in between Harry Miller and Victoria Wells. A detail your host, Ms. Shaffer (call me Gloria!) failed to mention is that, together, their weight is approximately equal to a teenage rhinoceros. Henry asks you if you mean anything by your blue and red striped tie and Victoria can’t take her eyes of the innocuous yellow bandage you have wrapped around your thumb. You try turning the conversation to the weather, but this only sets Harry off on a rant about governmental policies on weatherization, while Victoria remarks that she misses seeing the sunlight and lays her sizeable palm on your upper thigh.
Across the table, Tilda Marks is staring at you. You think that she can’t be the same Mrs. Marks, “Witch Marks,” who used to live in your neighborhood when you were a child. Witch Marks was much older. But maybe it’s her sister? Or her daughter? As Victoria Wells’ hand inches up your thigh you hope that word didn’t spread through the Marks’ family about your well-aimed egg that one Halloween when you were eight years old. Tilda Marks turns her attention to Jean-Claude, who feeds her a piece of bread dipped in butter. He begins to mutter in a French accent, and you realize (with some degree of alarm) that you are the only one who notices that he isn’t actually speaking French.
Gritting your teeth, you cross your legs. Victoria Wells seems to get the hint and withdraws her fingers. You pick up your wine glass and then freeze—you realize that the container of blood in the fridge was right next to the wine bag and, given Gloria’s level of inebriation when she first answered the door, you decide that you cannot trust her to have not mistaken the two. You put your wine down and glance at Gloria Shaffer. She is caring on an animated conversation with her dead grandfather, Lawrence (that is to say, his empty chair) who shakes the table in response. The cutlery jingles and liquids swoosh out of the glasses and onto the white linen tablecloth. You begin to think about how silly it is to invite a ghost to dinner when you notice that the food on his plate is gradually disappearing into thin air.
Mr. Shaffer, at least, seems sane. Then again, Gloria Shaffer always seemed sane during your water-cooler talks at the office. You are new to the corporation and you saw no harm in accepting her invitation to dinner, despite Jesse Mueller’s hints about Gloria’s “infamous” parties.
No, but Mr. Shaffer, Moe, does seem relatively normal. He is sitting quietly at the head of the table, poking at his meatloaf and ignoring Harry Miller, who is whispering in his ear. You catch his eye from across the table an attempt a smile. Moe Shaffer stares at you. With one, silent motion, he raises the bottle opener to his throat, bares his teeth at you, and pretends to pull it across his jugular vein.
You ask where the bathroom is. Gloria says she will show you and you walk together down a dark hallway, past a room where coils of silver smoke are creeping out of the doorframe, and to a small bathroom. She follows you in and presses you against the mirror. You insist that you need privacy and she smiles and says, later, before squeezing your bottom and sashaying out.
Down the hallway, the dinnertime conversation hits a crescendo. You stare at yourself in the mirror as they laugh. You realize with horror that the bathroom smells like someone has died, and someone else has sprayed a cheap air freshener in hopes of getting rid of the stench.
The window is locked. You break it with your elbow and sneak away.