Party 2 of 4

I walk into the room.

I am being introduced to people. Turtle faced ambassador's wife. The ambassador, a lusting man in his 50s, caressing my hand as he kisses it European style.

It isn't up to the dinner when I finally clock.

"Are you the apetizer?" asks the Alistair Cooke style diplomat on my right.

"Excuse me", I say, searching for his eyes to tell me that the weirdness is okay. One look at him and I can tell. It has been sanctioned and signed off.

He avoids my eyes. Of course he does. He sold me.

Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You have no idea what it feels like to be me there.

All these lusting, ridiculous Europeans, the aging Flamenco guitarist men swathed in pashminas.

I want to go.

Seriously.

I start walking towards the second exit in the room. Georgians, right? Always two ways to go.

Mademoiselle?

I stop.

Madameoiselle?

Again.

Yes?