Daily Prompt: Disastrous
What could be more disastrous? It doesn’t bear thinking about. I didn’t want to go to Mary Hill-Martins birthday party in the first place. We’d not been great friends when we were ten, and in the last five years nothing much had changed that fact. I would have been happier sitting beside Poppa in the sewing room watching his old bony hands stitch along broken blue chalk lines, doing so with a swift precision and grace that had come to him over too many years to count. Watching him was perfection with a cherry on top.
I couldn’t imagine anything putting a cherry on top of this party — but I had promised Alice I would be her wing-man. Wilton was going to be here and she had done nothing but talk about him all week. I agreed to come, in the end, to shut her up. It didn’t work. And now here I was sitting on a very pretty floral sofa, on a cold Saturday night in Mary Hill-Martins living room…Alice sitting expectantly on one side of me and Wilton so close on the other that our legs were touching, uncomfortably. I wonder if the punch is spiked.