Goldfish

They only started having people over when there were not enough words to fill the night. Parties, then, seemed the next logical step in their progression, the adult thing to do. So they’d invite over four or twelve other people and then spend the time between the invitation and opening the door arguing over the details.

On most issues they were alright. What movie to rent, that was his domain. Splitting up the chores for getting their tiny studio ready, that was hers. Store runs they did together.

Food, however, was always an issue. Not all food, though their usually compatible palates suffered a general distrust of the others across the board when it came to a party’s menu. But the true location of the trench warfare that would become their relationship was most apparent in the snacks. She wanted simple, cheap, easily forgotten in the face of cold drinks and whatever food she really wanted people to pay attention to. Chex Mix and cheese cubes seemed adequate.

He thought this was a cop out, proof of her lacking training in etiquette. She had, of course, grown up in the southern suburbs and not the western ones, he reminded her without really having to. And then there was the fact that she found his choices – bruschetta, crab puffs, mini-quiche – too pretentious for the people they inevitably hung out with. She told him this too.

And so it went, from the time they called their friends into the car and to the store, through the aisles both frozen and fresh and back to the apartment until there was no more time for argument because the first knocks were vibrating the door.

What may have been most telling, however, is that their guests were never aware any of it was going on. He liked to think they were doing the job of keeping things personal that should remain that way. She thought their friends just weren’t very observant.