The Engagement Party
A sense of smugness overtakes me. Flash fiction by Swetha Amit
At the engagement party in Pebble Beach, I pull out a small comb from my purse and run it through my long, wavy hair. I momentarily shift my gaze from the ocean to glance at my son's fiancée, Teena, dressed in a flashy pink off-shoulder gown. As the sun casts its rays on her face, I notice faint pockmarks beneath that layer of carefully applied concealer. A sense of smugness overtakes me.
Teena flashes a radiant smile at my tall, athletic husband, who introduces one of his golfing friends. He says something that prompts Teena to smile, revealing her gleaming teeth. The photographer captures their picture against the backdrop of the azure blue ocean. My husband catches me staring and beckons me to join them. A cold breeze slaps my face. It’s chilly enough to ignite that burning sensation in my stomach.
This feeling has engulfed me since childhood whenever I saw attractive girls dressed in outfits that highlighted their narrow waists and hips, firm breasts, and toned legs, tossing their lustrous hair and flaunting their glowing skin. Meanwhile, I’d stand in a corner—an awkward adolescent figure in braces, oversized sweaters, and baggy pants, hoping they would hide my voluptuous hips, thunder thighs, and heavy breasts. My cheeks were dotted with glaring red zits. The boys never gave me a second look. Those attractive girls called me Pepperoni Pizza Face while I sat alone in the cafeteria, finding comfort in spaghetti, meatballs, or French fries.
My thoughts are interrupted by my husband's gentle tap on the shoulder. When he embraces me, the musky scent of his cologne intoxicates me.
"How's my queen doing?" His gray eyes radiate the same affection they did on the first day I met him at Half Moon Bay forty years ago.
I can’t help but wonder what he saw in me, with my blemished skin, unruly hair, and curvy figure. Even now, despite my success as an interior designer, the thought of him leaving me for another woman gnaws at the pit of my stomach like a parasite.
"Come on, let's take a picture with them," he urges.
Just then, an old colleague of his walks by to say hello. She gives him a quick hug and a brief nod in my direction. Like a fleeting butterfly, she conveys her greetings before strutting off in her orange gown to congratulate the charming couple.
Clutching my comb and purse, I shake my head, suddenly feeling small and ordinary in my black dress with a slit that shows the cellulite on my aging thighs and thick calves.
When Teena was introduced to us a year ago, she struck me as dynamic and confident, reminding me of those girls who called me a pepperoni pizza face. However, since she and my son lived outside of California, I couldn't get to know her beyond surface-level conversations. When our son announced his desire to marry her, we were surprised but supportive. Still, I felt squeamish at the thought of someone like Teena in my life, and those painful memories washed over me like a tsunami.
"What's wrong?" my husband furrows his bushy eyebrows.
"Not now," I whisper, my throat feeling parched.
A waiter with a tray of drinks stops by. I snatch a glass of orange juice and gulp it down quickly, spilling some on my dress.
"They are waiting for us." My husband grabs a few tissues from the nearby table and hands them to me.
I hurriedly wipe my outfit with tissues. It's still wet, smelling of oranges.
"Come on," he grabs my hand while I am still rooted to my spot.
A few guests dart curious looks in our direction.
"The stains," I protest, terrified of appearing clumsy in front of Teena. My mind races back to that afternoon in high school when I accidentally spilled ketchup on my brown sweater and became the laughingstock for a week.
"It will go away with time," he assures me.
"But it hasn't so far," I bite my lip.
My husband pulls me toward the couple. The tissues slip from my hand and scatter across the beach. I continue clinging to my comb and purse, each step of mine indicating reluctance until I stand beside Teena, who smiles at me. My face heats up as I attempt to return her smile.
After the photo session, her eyes scanned me from head to toe. My stomach tightens at the thought of a snide comment. Instead, she says, "Nice outfit." I'm taken aback by her compliment and study her closely. Her black eyeliner is slightly smudged. The scars on her face are even more pronounced now in the bright sunlight, appearing as deep as mine—perhaps even deeper. She seems happy while engaging in polite conversation, emanating a scent of jasmine from her generously applied perfume.
A sudden longing for solitude washes over me. I excuse myself, leaving behind a cacophony of laughter and chatter, still clutching my comb and purse. Near the beach, I spot a lifeguard attentively watching over people wading deep in the water. The waves are calm, and the scent of salt and sand tickles my nostrils. I observe folks in their vibrant bathing suits—some have model-like figures, while others confidently embrace the curves and softness of their love handles and thighs.
I remove my shoes and let my toes sink into the wet sand, feeling the foamy ocean water cradle my feet. Shrill cries of seagulls echo above me. Children decorate sandcastles with shells alongside their families. It's unadulterated fun, like a fresh glass of orange juice. Then, another gust of wind blows. I close my eyes, listening to the murmur of the waves. The feel of my hair, tugged by this force of nature, feels strangely liberating. I open my eyes and glance at my comb. A few strands of my greying hair are entangled in it. I toss it into the water, watching it disappear into the surging frothy waves.
Swetha Amit is the author of two chapbooks, Cotton Candy from the Sky and Mango Pickle in Summer. An MFA graduate from the University of San Francisco, her works appear in HAD, Flash Fiction Magazine, Oyez Review, etc. Her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.