There is so much emotional punch pooled at the edge of the buffet. Party guests are too busy crying to notice the maroon concoction; no on has yet to ladle any of it onto those intricate crystal cups that I have set out for them. I have made the punch.
And this party is a fucking disaster. That may be my fault too.
Just as I am about to join the other crying guests, someone steps forward: a beautiful woman, elegantly dressed, who may or may not be real, and she pours herself some of the punch.
Everyone stops crying, watches her gulp down the entire cup. She burps.
People wipe their tears. There is a smattering of applause.
The party might not be fucking disaster after all.
Who is the woman? I wonder as I step forward to introduce myself. Will she marry me?
No she says, hearing my thoughts. NO FUCKING WAY.