Damsel in the Red Dress

The frozen night gnaws at my face like it hasn't eaten in days, alive with a bouquet of red currants and fanfare. The smell of perfume slips silently out of the after-party and down the spiral staircase, escaping through the closed door in lusty drafts like a flower garden on steroids. Our footsteps echo - too loud in the crowded, solitary parking garage. Everything feels amplified tonight, and yet far away - like I'm listening to - reaching out and existing through a glass wall. The click of my high-heels on the concrete... The heartbeat of the alcohol in my bloodstream...

She - I stand shivering in the burning red cocktail dress we rented just for the occasion as Kattar makes a ceremony out of opening my door.

The late November chill sits palpably thick in the car like we're bathing in evaporated ice water. On other days I would fret the gooseflesh on my shoulders something awful, silently bemoaning the seconds it takes Kattar to slide into the driver's seat and close his door, but I told myself I wouldn't let anything ruin today. I still might ask him for his jacket, and if I do, I'd better do it sooner than later, cuz I know he'll never relinquish anything without teasing me for an hour and a half first. We'll either be frozen or back at the hotel, by then.

I study the parked cars outside my window, dip-dyed in darkness that seems to lob them in half beneath the shadow of the overhangs. The yellow lights in the garage are few and far between, casting a dangerously sleepy hue over everything. I feel so sluggish, it grates on me - wishing I was exploding with energy - feeling as excited as I know I should be right now.

Today was the happiest day of my life, in a dull sort of way. Perfect in muted color.

Kattar finally closes his door and turns the car, and the heat, on. I can tell by his posture that he's laughing on the inside. I can almost feel him fizzing beneath the surface as he turns in my direction and smirks, "So... how's it feel? What's it like being Ms. Van Gogh?"

"That's not what they call the award," I reply, sighing just because I know it amuses him to annoy me, "This isn't a beauty pageant..." Then I think about it.

"Well, it's kind of a beauty pageant, I guess. But "Damsel in the Red Dress" is what everyone was fawning over. Not me. I guess Vegerra would say she was the 'prettiest girl in the room.' That still kinda hasn't hit me yet..."

"That's just cuz you're drunk," he laughs, shifting the car out of 'park.' "It'll hit you tomorrow, with the hangover."

I just shake my head at the accusation rather than trying to argue. I know good and well I'm too 'legless' to have a leg to stand on.

"You'd be drunk too if you'd tried the champagne they were serving," I tell him. "It was made the same year my grandparents were born, in some fancy Spanish vineyard known for serving royals throughout Europe in days past. Vegerra said it cost more than the venue."

Kattar whistles, "That is one expensive headache. I'll just have to try it the next time you take the world by storm. I'd already set my heart on playing chauffeur tonight." he laughs again, his voice like silver bells "Gotta make sure the lady of the hour wakes up in her own bed tomorrow morning, instead of a ditch somewhere."

"I'm not that drunk," I say flatly, but less articulately than intended. Kattar smirks, but doesn't take his eyes off the small circle of light outside the windshield. Adjusting the rearview mirror with one hand he urges the car around the last tight corner with a sort of refined ease. The security guard salutes us as he waves the car through, sans toll.

"Congratulations," He calls to me.

I thank him. Try to make my voice sound happy. Smile a smile that's horribly dry. I feel like an entitled little brat.