DANCING WITH MYSELF • EDDIE MUNSON

six

You shoveled chocolate cake into your mouth while George Michael crooned "Careless Whisper" into the cold, dark depths of your soul: "I'm never gonna dance again / Guilty feet have got no rhythm..."

You sang along with your mouth full, crumbs spewing from your lips, stopping only to take another bite, another swig of punch. You were drunk on your own misery because nobody had bothered to spike the punch bowl. Yeah, apparently you were attending the one dry prom in the entire country, but that was A-okay because this smooth, melancholy sax was sending you swirling into despair and nothing mattered anymore.

You finished one plate of cake, licked your fork clean, then reached for another. That's how Chrissy found you, three slices deep in chocolate cake, with frosting smeared all over your face. She came up to you like a mother approaching her paint-splattered toddler and said, "What are you doing?"

"Oh, you know, just eating my feelings..."

"Yeah, I can see that." She surveyed the damage with a frown. "Where'd you get all the cake?"

"I stole it off that table over there." You gestured with your hand. "Not my proudest moment... and yet, somehow, not my lowest tonight, either." You sliced through the stolen cake with your fork, another huge chunk, and—down the hatch!—stuffed it all into your mouth.

Chrissy sucked in a breath through her teeth, grimacing as she watched you. "Oh boy," she said, and sat down beside you. "Okay, sweetie, tell me what happened."

"I took your advice. I tried to talk to Eddie, I tried to be nice, and I went down hard in a giant blaze of glory. Like, it was cataclysmic, Chris. You should have seen it. We're talking 'Mount Vesuvius erupting' bad, 'meteor killing all the dinosaurs' bad. Like, I just single-handedly wiped out an entire civilization in a matter of seconds. Total carnage. No survivors. He yelled at me, Chris. He actually yelled at me, and you know, I always thought I'd be turned on by him yelling, but I wasn't. Honestly, I'm kinda traumatized by the whole thing, and... uhh, yeah... now I'm sitting here eating cake with my good friend George Michael. He has a lovely voice, don't you think?"

You went back for more cake, and Chrissy snatched the fork out of your hand. "Okay, that's enough sugar for you."

You snorted. "Don't worry, I'll just throw it up later."

Chrissy winced.

"Oh—" You slapped your hand over your mouth and sank into your chair, a shameful blush engulfing your face. "Oh my god, Chris, I didn't mean it like that. It's just... you know, all the lactose, it's gonna make me sick later, that's all I meant. I swear, I wasn't trying to..."

Chrissy's smile was warm and forgiving. "I know. It's okay." She scooted closer to you, then handed you a napkin and told you to wipe your face. While you were doing that, she said, "All right, just out of curiosity... when you were talking to Eddie, were you talking to him like you and I talk? Or were you just making a lot of jokes at his expense?"

"That's not fair, Chris. I've known you my whole life."

"Just answer the question."

You puffed up your cheeks and blew out. "Fine, I was making jokes, but they weren't mean or anything. I just..." You hung your head. "I don't know how to talk to him, Chris. It's like, he looks at me and my heart starts beating really fast and I just go into panic mode, and I start hurling insults like hand grenades. It's like World War II in my head, and I'm deep in the trenches. And I know I'm messing it up. I can hear myself messing it up. All the warning bells are going off: Abort mission! Abort mission! But I can't stop myself! I insult his clothes and his music, and I sacrifice him to demons."