Tainted Love

One Year

IRIS

She and James had been at the party for close to an hour now -- time was moving so slowly that Iris thought the clock on the wall might be stuck. It was huge, gaudy, with shining Roman numerals instead of numbers. Grand and uncomfortable with no personality.

Which was the perfect way to describe the general atmosphere of the event. What the event actually was, Iris had no idea. It had something to do with writing, but she had tuned out when James tried to explain the specifics. She didn't have to understand. Her role, like every other time she had accompanied James to an event, was to smile and make polite conversation in a low-cut dress.

James picked out this particular dress; Iris fought the urge to put her hand over her chest every time they met someone new. Champagne rolled around in her stomach whenever she turned to look at the people James was pointing out to her. He whispered their names to her with little jokes and bits of gossip.

She felt more heavy than glittery, bloated with alcohol and annoyed at James's hand placement -- parked on her lower back all night, pressing into the cloth of her dress. It felt less sexy and more like he was an usher showing her to her seat.

She was being good, though, she knew that. Whenever James walked her up to someone new, she performed perfectly: extending her hand, smiling, resting her head on James's shoulder sometimes, nodding, listening to long-winded stories about journeys to Asia and book signings and new story ideas. Letting them glance down at her body -- the more they looked, the less conversation she had to make.

Iris knew James loved it when other men ogled her. He got off on knowing that he had something that they wanted, cupping her ass in front of them, whispering in her ear, his stubble reddening her skin.

She was a commodity, not far from an expensive suit jacket or a best-selling book. Everyone needed something to set them apart from other people at parties.

Most of the people at this particular party were older, esteemed authors and their wives. According to James, most of them were having affairs, some with other women in the room. He made it sound funny, which made Iris feel awful. If he was joking about people cheating on each other, he must not consider it a topic very close to home.

Then his hand returned to her lower back, she took a big swallow of champagne, and the sympathy left her. It was too dark in the room -- the furniture, the lighting, the quiet conversation. There was no spark, no red thread in the tapestry. Everything faded.

The alcohol pulled at her eyelids until she had no choice but to pull at James's shirt sleeve and give him the I want to leave look. He complied, probably assuming that she would come home with him. But she felt used up by the party, the talking; she didn't want to perform anymore.

It had rained while they were inside; the pavement was stained and fragrant.

"You ready to apparate?" James asked.

"I'm sorry, I think I need to sit down for a moment."

Iris let go of his hand and sat down on the stairs of the next building over. She put her head in her hands and felt the rainwater work its way through the thin fabric of her dress. Not very attractive.

James's shadow came and stood over her. She looked up.

"I feel sick," she said. "I need a cigarette."

His brow furrowed. "Don't have one, darling. I never do. You know, I wish you'd quit."

"I basically have, I just feel sick right now."

"Would that not make you feel more sick?"

Iris put her head in her hands, stared at her heels, the way they were shaping her feet.