(Originally published on September 11, 2002.)

The wind had picked up with the volume of the chatter; lips loose, tongues lax. The aroma of whiskey and wine rode the breeze, then dissapated leaving the musk undertones of tobacco, maybe a pipe. Voices familiar reorganize–rise and recede–punctuated by laughter and pauses.

Cake is served and no one eats, returning to their cocktails and conversations. Cameras emerge and we stand next to whoever’s nearest for a quick snapshot of the attendees. Tall ones crouch and women try to find a genuine smile, yet fail, baring nothing but glossy teeth and spit. Cigarettes are stashed behind backs and I breathe in sharply, straightening my shoulders–hold the breath and stand dead still.

A hand from behind and to my left slips beneath my shirt–bare skin on unsuspecting bare skin. I arrived at this party alone.

White light overtakes my field of vision and I freeze, grinning, startled and wonder too calmly who might belong to the hand now resting on my stomach, just above the waistline of my pants.

I didn’t entertain the notion I was being accosted, the fluid movement was gentle and easy. I didn’t reel around to strike the perv who found my waist to be the best resting spot for his paw. But briefly, the tender carress that signified ownership–or kindredship–was so light and natural that I thought it just might have been intended for me. The next instant I knew, the flash no longer bleaching my sight, that, of course, that touch was meant for someone else.

He, too, knew and promptly jerked back his hand, taking hers in his–never meeting my gaze, though mine was aimed squarely at my shoes. I caught her face in my peripheral vision as he wrapped a strong arm around her rounded shoulder and pressed his mouth to her cheek.

She wrinkled her nose as if to suggest she’d rather he hadn’t and turned, oblivious, to retrieve a lipstick from her purse.

He shrunk away and I covered my expression and guilt with a goblet of burgundy wine.