After Party
The living room was quiet now, save for the hum of the refrigerator and a dull ticking from the wall clock.The quiet felt strange after the constant swell of voices, laughter, and music. Marion could still hear the echoes of conversations, the bright peals of laughter lingering in her mind. She stood at the edge of the room taking in the sight of it all: glasses scattered on the coffee table, the remains of snacks strewn across various surfaces, and she cringed to find a splotch of pink cupcake frosting, with a boot print in it, staining her carpet.
She bent down, pressing a damp cloth against the spot. The frosting didn’t lift easily, moisture making it a paint that further seeped into the carpet fiber. She should have waited until it was dry and tried a vacuum. But now she’d probably need to go over it a few times with a carpet cleaner to completely get it out. Her hand stilled as she felt a sudden wave of exhaustion, a bone-deep tiredness that seemed to have been waiting patiently for the party to end.
She straightened up and looked around. The hallway light was too bright and too yellow. It felt like being under a fluorescent bulb in a convenience store after hours. She winced and flicked it off, settling for the softer, leftover lights from outside. Her feet padded softly across the floor as she moved to collect empty cups and plates, her fingers brushing over crumbs and napkins. She sighed.
Marion always got like this after hosting. This sense of anticlimax. She loved having people over, loved the planning, the excitement of putting everything together. In her mind, the parties she envisioned were perfect, like something out of a magazine spread: everyone in cheerful spirits, the decorations flawless, the food impeccable. She wanted laughter and loud excited voices having meaningful conversations. She wanted people to leave with memories they’d hold onto, maybe even waking up the next day with a hint of that magic still in their heads.
But when the evening arrived, she was almost always left with an odd, hollow feeling. She set herself up to be disappointed, somehow. She wondered if everyone felt this way—that gap between what you hope for and what really happens.
Tonight was no exception. It had been a good night. People had laughed; her friends had complimented her on the setup, on the string lights she’d hung around the backyard, and the fire pit she’d placed right so that everyone could sit around it. She’d seen everyone smiling and having a good time. She’d even felt herself get swept up in it, felt the sense of ease and lightness that came from talking with friends and watching them enjoy themselves. For a few hours, she’d been in the flow of it, too. But now, with everyone gone, she could see how the night had fallen short of her impossible standards.
She hadn’t enough time to socialize with everyone, or to socialize for the right amount of time with each person. Her mom, lacking social skills these days, interrupted and made herself the center of attention. Her niece got tired too early in the evening which meant she and Marion’s sister had to leave early. There hadn’t been enough cider, and so much wine that she’d had to shove extra bottles into the elbows of friends as they left for a lack of space to store it all herself. At least on that point, her guests went home with a gift.
A wadded-up napkin lay at the foot of her armchair, and she picked it up with a sigh.The warm fire bowl and the string lights still cast a glow through the sliding glass doors, their gentle ambiance that had been perfect for the evening. She glanced out into the backyard, where a few stray cups still sat around the dimming fire pit. She’d get those later, she decided.
In the kitchen, Marion leaned against the counter and closed her eyes. She let herself exhale fully, somewhere between a sigh and relaxation. The night had been good enough— a thought she kept trying to accept, one she wished felt more satisfying. Maybe if she didn’t aim so high, she could just enjoy things for what they were. If she could just let herself plan something simple and accept the natural flow of things. But it was so hard to quiet that little voice inside her that whispered “This could look nicer” and “just one more detail”. The same voice that kept her awake the night before a party, double-checking her list, rearranging the lights, perfecting the playlist. She wanted perfection like in a movie where middle class characters have an impossible, expensive and pristine house. And everyone wears the biggest grins and their glasses are never empty. While Marion knew those things didn’t exist she still yearned for it. For the status of it.
She looked at the mess again, at the cupcake stain on the carpet, and she smiled a little, despite herself. It was a sign, she realized, of a good night. Proof that people had laughed and eaten and drunk and settled in. She needed that to be enough.
Marion grabbed the bag of trash and hefted it toward the back door. Stepping outside, the cooler air hit her face, waking her up a bit. Maybe, she thought, next time, she wouldn’t plan so much. Maybe she’d keep it simple. Just a few close friends, no fuss, no perfect playlist, no perfect decorations. Just her and the people she loved, gathering without expectations. Maybe then she could enjoy the small, fleeting moments, tucked between the bigger ones, easy to miss but there all the same.