Two Slices

I arranged the empty red party cups into perfect triangles, like fresh sets of bowling pins. There are two groups of cups - mirror images of each other - sitting on opposite ends of my dining room table. I inherited the table from my parents after I moved out of my dorm and off-campus. It's an old table, so one end is kind of wobbly, but I placed a few folded up napkins under the wonky leg to keep the playing field even.

I cleaned mine and my lazy roommate's bedrooms to squeeze out a few extra square feet of hangout space. I'm sure my roommate won't mind. He's been living with his girlfriend for the past few months anyway.

Being a part-time cashier and a full-time student means I can't afford a lot of alcohol, but it is my birthday after all; so I broke out the credit card and bought a bottle of Patrón, a bottle of Bacardi, a bottle of Grey Goose, and three cases of beer. They're all sitting on my kitchen counter, unopened. Three hours after the party "started."

I take a picture of the virgin bottles and post them to my Instagram, Snapchat, and Facebook. I add the caption "Is anyone coming or no?"

What's the use of having 503 friends if you never see any of them in person? My event invite has 18 "yeses" and 7 "maybes."

25 "no's" in polite camouflage.

I swipe through the virtual RSVPs, looking first at the ones who replied "Going." Trisha Collins, Jennifer Mann, Derek McCaffrey, Kendra Kennedy. The coolest kids at Northeast College. I guess if it sounds too good to be true . . .

When scrolling through the "maybes," I see Amy Hirschel's profile pic. Her frizzy, red hair glows like fire with the sun behind it. Her thick-rimmed black-framed glasses are sliding slightly down her button nose. Her braces sparkle like fireworks.

Just then, I get a text.

Sorry we couldn't make it dude. I saw your Snap. Did anybody show up?

It's my roommate Justin. I don't hear from him much anymore, but I naively thought that I could count on him to be here today. He's big on birthdays, so I went out of my way a few months ago to make sure that his was special.

No worries man. A handful of people showed up. It's a smaller crew, but we're having a good time. I'll catch up with you later.

I walk over to a tower of now-room-temperature pizzas on my kitchen counter. I open the top box and see that it's ham and pineapple. Thanks Trisha, I say aloud to myself. I silently vow to never order ham and pineapple pizza again, no matter what the circumstances are.

I set Trisha's pizza box to the side and pry open the next box. It's a cheese pizza. I move that to the "out" pile and open the next box. It's pepperoni.

I put two slices onto a plate and slide them into the microwave. I walk over to the virgin bottles and pop the Patrón's cherry. I pour a tall glass of tequila on the rocks.

The microwave beeps and I take the plate out. I stick a fat wide candle in the shape of a "2" onto one slice, then stick another candle in the shape of a "1" on the other slice. I light the candles and watch them glow for a moment while I take a sip of tequila. The cool, melted ice water mixed with the burn of the tequila slide down my throat in sad, symphonic tandem. I close my eyes and blow out the candles.

Four loud knocks rap on my front door.

I swing my head to the side, looking in the direction of the knocks. I stand up and walk over to my worn, wood-panel front door. I stand on my toes, looking through the small, gold-framed, square window, covered in fingerprint smudges and water residue. I can't make out a face, but I see glowing red hair, with the sun behind it.

I open the door slowly, trying not to seem eager. "Hi," I say, with a smile that I can't seem to contain.

"Hi," Amy says, sliding her glasses up the bridge of her nose with her index finger. "Sorry I'm late. I had to cover the end of someone's shift."

I want to invite her in, but I don't want her to see that I'm eating microwaved pizza and drinking tequila by myself. "Hi," I say again, fumbling for words, "what's going on?"

She giggles, "Um, can I come in?"

I search for an excuse to avoid her from joining me in my despair dungeon, but come up with nothing. "Yeah," I say, "of course, yeah, come on in."

As she walks in, I close the door behind her, turning my back to her. She hears my Spotify party playlist blaring to no one. The playlist I spent hours tweaking. She sees my alcohol bottles unopened, my beer pong table unplayed.

"Where is everyone?" she asks.

"I - I don't know. They said they were coming. I um . . ." I look at my shoes, ashamed. "I'm sorry," I say.

I turn around and look at her. She's gazing at me, flashing her fireworks smile. "That's OK," she says. "Everyone I wanted to see is already here."

I laugh through my uncontainable smile. "Cool," I say, "Um, do you want some pizza? I just heated up a couple slices."

"Sure," she says, "I'd love one."