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Literature Text
The party-goers stand in a circle, Evan rallying their attention for the fourth time. Slurring, loud and teetering, he goes on about how wonderful it is to make VP of Sales at InterCorp Southern. Katherine, scanning the room, resents the awkward smiles until it hits her — they mirror her own. The embarrassed wife who made excuses all these years empties her facade. "You know what I think Evan? You drink too much."
The crowd hushes.
"Well, maybe you should start," Evan replies, tipping his glass toward her.
Welling up, Katherine retreats to the guest bedroom. Two of the girls follow behind, attempting to console her, but she shoos them away and shuts the door.
Family members gather Evan and migrate him outside to get some air and sit, away from prying eyes. Like a spoiled child, he stews, asking what all the fuss is about.
Travis sees an opportunity but has to be discrete. After a couple minutes, he makes his way down the hall and knocks on Katherine's door.
"Leave me alone please."
"It's me, Travis." Then silence.
He is about to make his way back when the door opens. "Come in," says Katherine.
The look on her face, the end of a song, fading out.
She opens up the moment, "It's okay. It really is."
"I've never seen you like this."
"I must have ran in here crying a hundred times over the years — just not in front of everyone. That's the only thing that's new."
"I didn't realize —"
"No one did. And I suppose I can morph that into a twisted sense of pride. I've been a damn good actress."
Cupping her hands in his, together they sit on the edge of the bed.
She continues, "But then you have to ask yourself, 'How many times do I have to perform the same play? When does the final curtain mean something?'" She squeezes his hands. "You know, you can cry so much your face starts to hurt. Your brain swells. Your heart — it beats to keep you alive but it loses its zest. It knows before you do sometimes."
The makeup that had run down her cheeks was already drying, fading — he had to kiss her.
But not yet. "I should go out there. People will start wondering," she sighs, staring at the doorway.
"Right," he whispers to her but more so to himself.
Watching her exit, he lingers, contemplating what would happen next — or what could happen next. Was it happening for real this time?
The crowd hushes.
"Well, maybe you should start," Evan replies, tipping his glass toward her.
Welling up, Katherine retreats to the guest bedroom. Two of the girls follow behind, attempting to console her, but she shoos them away and shuts the door.
Family members gather Evan and migrate him outside to get some air and sit, away from prying eyes. Like a spoiled child, he stews, asking what all the fuss is about.
Travis sees an opportunity but has to be discrete. After a couple minutes, he makes his way down the hall and knocks on Katherine's door.
"Leave me alone please."
"It's me, Travis." Then silence.
He is about to make his way back when the door opens. "Come in," says Katherine.
The look on her face, the end of a song, fading out.
She opens up the moment, "It's okay. It really is."
"I've never seen you like this."
"I must have ran in here crying a hundred times over the years — just not in front of everyone. That's the only thing that's new."
"I didn't realize —"
"No one did. And I suppose I can morph that into a twisted sense of pride. I've been a damn good actress."
Cupping her hands in his, together they sit on the edge of the bed.
She continues, "But then you have to ask yourself, 'How many times do I have to perform the same play? When does the final curtain mean something?'" She squeezes his hands. "You know, you can cry so much your face starts to hurt. Your brain swells. Your heart — it beats to keep you alive but it loses its zest. It knows before you do sometimes."
The makeup that had run down her cheeks was already drying, fading — he had to kiss her.
But not yet. "I should go out there. People will start wondering," she sighs, staring at the doorway.
"Right," he whispers to her but more so to himself.
Watching her exit, he lingers, contemplating what would happen next — or what could happen next. Was it happening for real this time?
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