I like to issue myself little challenges. This story was born of wanting to write from the point of view of a male character, in a style more old fashioned than what I usually write. It’s not a story, per se, but more of a writing exercise. It’s about 473 words.
Dressed for Dinner
by Casie Blevins
I was heady from an afternoon of sex and logy from dining and drink and the last thing that I wanted was Mother’s intrusions via the phone, into my private thoughts and activities.
“I’ll expect you at seven, then?”
“Mrs. Carson will be there. Mr. Winkles and the Tan Brothers. You wouldn’t want to miss it.”
“Fine, Mother.” I conceded, the dutiful son.
I spent the rest of the afternoon at Margot’s blathering away about my mother, her intrusions, her insistence that everything go her way, I was almost bored of myself. Margo for her part listened quietly, smoked her cigarette and put her feet in my lap, to rub.
“You shouldn’t let her boss you around.”
“But you just said–”
“I mean I won’t. I will go right over there tonight and give her a piece of my mind. Right in the middle of her dinner party.”
That is just what I did. I dressed impeccably for dinner, a suit and tie, new shoes from Kravat’s and then arrived promptly at seven pm.
She opened the door, my mother, and ushered me into the room.
“My darling you must meet–”
I interrupted her in way I hoped was dramatic enough to make a difference, to stop her in her tracks. I raised my voice a little so that the assembled audience could witness my declaration. “I know what you’re doing, Mother,” I said and I could see out of the corner of my eye a form which did not match Mrs. Carson, Mr. Winkle or the Tan brothers. This was a young woman’s figure and I knew that this dinner party had been set up for the sole purpose of my meeting her. “I know what you’re getting at, Mother, and I don’t need your advice, your ministrations into my love life–”
“Steven, darling!” she gasped and I could hear a disapproving murmur from around the room.
“I don’t require a chaperone or a maid, and I certainly don’t need you to play match maker–”
And that’s when I saw the young woman’s face and I froze, my eyes dancing from her face to the rest of the assembled room and back again. My tongue stilled in my mouth and my breath caught. I forgot Margot entirely for all the world.
My mother took in my face and my silence and began her introductions. “Steven, darling, this is Rachel Brigham. She is Mrs. Carson’s granddaughter. Rachel, this is my son, the mute one, Steven Masters.” She affected a smile that spoke volumes, a chiding, knowing, mother-knows-best smile.
No one in the world existed besides Rachel. Her deep brown hair matched flawless brown eyes and a small pert mouth that I longed to kiss and kiss and kiss.
“Rachel, “ I breathed. “Pleased.”