Rhetorics

1. The wine taster (Hashirama)

I was lucky.

The bathroom being empty was an uncommon occurrence, the five stalls usually being full, a queue outside. Now, there was nobody there but me. 

I leaned my hands on the sink, looking down, suddenly feeling that the pulsing lights, the loud music, the crowded dance floors outside that I'd fled from were going to make me throw up, even if they usually never bothered me.

Well, they bothered me now.

I looked up at my mirror image. At least, I looked like I belonged in an expensive club like this. I did objectively belong in an expensive club like this; I had inherited a lot of money, and my expensive black trousers, the Tiger of Sweden belt, the light blue Filippa K shirt were not just a facade but reflected my status in society. I had tucked my shirt in, showing off my taut abdomen; if I were to spend hours a week running and also a few at the gym, I might as well let it show; my slimness, my layers of muscles. My hair, long and brown, hung clean and gleaming over my shoulders. I took the hairband I wore on my wrist, tied my hair up in a low bun, splashed water on my face trying to rub some of the anxiety away. I made sure not to touch my eyes; I had a tiny bit of black makeup making me look dangerous, and even if it was waterproof, I did not want to risk it. I took a paper towel, dried my face from my high forehead to my thin, straight nose to my sharp jawline before I sighed. I really did not want to go back out, but figured I couldn't stay here for the rest of the night.

The evening had had a good start. I had arrived at eleven, one hour later than our dedicated time to show them they couldn't boss me around just because I was new and green, and it had worked. The white men had slapped me on the shoulder as I came, handing me beers, paid for my drinks throughout the evening. Not that I needed anyone to pay for them, mind. They'd all asked me questions and listened intently to my answers, or at least done their best in the loud club. I had looked around me and seen the receipt of what I believed being true; in the club, that was so expensive only the top of the societal hierarchy could afford a visit, were only white men and some women. The women were probably not successful themselves but there as company of the rich white men, but that was fine with me, as an all-men club wouldn't be quite so appealing. There was not a glimpse of dark hair anywhere, nor dark skin, nor thick accent. I thrived. My party members had asked me to join them on the dance floor, but I had declined, preferring to watch the whole spectacle from the side while sipping my three hundred dollar glass of wine. 

 So I was left to my own for a while, which was well-needed at two am which was the time my head usually began going foggy now I was thirty-five.

And that was when I saw them. A group of men and women of colour.

They were walking in the club as if they belonged, flaunting neat, expensive-looking clothes, their hair perfect. They came to the bar, way too close to me for my own liking, and one man ordered glasses of champagne for all of them. I held my breath, preferring not to find out how badly they would smell. They were all brown, which was bad, but not as bad as being Asian. To me, almost all people of colour were the same, except for Asians. I hated them the most, seeing they seemed to go under the radar somehow, not being as feared and oppressed as they should be. 

I frowned at their glasses of champagne, taking note what bottle it was so I would never, ever even touch that sort. I hated them, and everything they touched, everything they breathed on.

"Hi."

I jerked, looked behind me. Shit. One of the coloured women was standing behind me. She was tall to be a woman and wore heels enhancing it, a trait I would find admirable if it was one of the other women in the club. I couldn't deny that she was objectively very attractive; dark hair that tumbled down her back, her underhair bleached, a round nose, thick eyebrows. She wore a bold, red lipstick and a neat suit that looked fantastic with her stilettos. She smiled a crooked smile.

"What's that vinegar you're drinking?" She did not have an accent. It bothered me. She dared take my glass from me, twirled it around in the glass, smelled it. Then, she took a sip. I felt myself close to throwing up. Had she been one of the other women, the situation would, of course, had been intoxicatingly hot and I would be impressed beyond measure and done everything to get her home. But as she took a sip, twirled the wine around in her mouth I just wanted to slap that glass out of her hand. A professional wine taster... "God, how do you drink that? Here, let mommy buy you the real deal."

She was heart-wrenchingly good at flirting.

I decided I did not want my glass back as she had touched it with her filthy hands.

"Keep it", I said, no humour in my voice. "Filth."

"What's your problem?" one of the men of the brown group said. He had heard our conversation.

Of course they want to pick a fight. They always do. That's what people with low IQ do. I didn't have any desire to talk to any of them, not to bring them down, not to defend myself. They were just so beneath me and all others in this club, they weren't worth my breath. 

So I turned and left for the bathroom, where I had now recovered for a while. I still felt like throwing up, so I decided I had done enough for the evening, establishing myself within the party, made friends. It was time to leave and go home.

I took a deep breath and walked out, taking care not to encounter any brown people on my way.