As always, thanks for reading.
The Events Chair finally chose Amy to host the committee holiday party. The other members presented exotic feasts, sometimes catered, sometimes home cooked. They used locally sourced meats to keep up with the organic trend. But she couldn’t afford real chicken, so she used canned. Everyone at the party complimented her pot stickers, and no one discovered she was a fraud.
They grew drunk on box wine that she’d poured into thrift store decanters. Amy told them all it was homemade by her uncles in Sonoma, and the guests were blown away, by the charm and deliciousness of handcrafted alcohol.
As the alcohol settled in, they put their feet up on the table she’d found on the curbside, and slouched on couches that came with the apartment. When Amy’s Aunt died, there was no one left, so she’d inherited the flat. The music swirled up from a record player, which had a certain nostalgia that could last at least one night.
The guests trickled out starting at midnight, the last to leave around three. Amy knew the others probably hired cleaners to sweep up the crumbs and wash the wine glasses with red sediment hardening to them.
But not Amy. She turned the lights off since she couldn’t afford the electricity, especially after a night with lights blaring and heat set at seventy degrees. Amy curled up on the floor by the oven, which had warmed the floor. She waited for the light to creep in, so she could clean.