What My Pain Would Wear to a Dinner Party

Outfit

A robe. Not a nice robe, a robe with a coffee stain shaped like Idaho, worn to my party with total confidence.

Behavior

She heads for the couch and falls asleep during the part where you are supposed to mingle. I cover her with a blanket because I am a good host. She wakes up only to ask what is for dessert, then goes back to sleep before I answer. She is the friend who came for the nap and stayed for the snacks.

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Outfit

One slipper and one shoe. A sweater that might be inside out. We may never know.

Behavior

He starts every sentence with real promise and then loses the thread somewhere around the third word. He will say, "Oh, you have to try the, the, the thing, the round thing," and he means crackers. He once introduced me to my own husband. He calls me "you" because my name went somewhere and did not leave a note. I love him, and I cannot trust him to carry a plate.

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Outfit

A beautiful, structured coat, the kind that holds its own shape, kept on all night because bending the elbows to take it off feels like a negotiation she would rather skip.

Behavior

She stands by the door the entire evening. Not because she wants to leave; she just got there, planted, and now this is where she lives. Ask her to grab a chair and she will give you a long look that says, "We both know that is not happening." She means it warmly. She means it firmly. She is not moving.

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Outfit

Sequins. A feather thing. Volume nobody requested. Dressed for a different party entirely.

Behavior

She walks in loud and makes the whole room about her in under a minute. She does not read the table. She talks over the soup, taps the glassware, turns the lights up when everyone agreed on dim. Some nights she is just a guest who lingers near the snacks. Other nights she is standing on the table singing, and the rest of us are pretending this is fine, this is normal, we love a show.

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