67
Blind Alleys of the Heart
D. B. Gardner
It had been at least ten years since you’d attended a wedding reception alone. A date somehow felt compulsory, if only for the optics. More than basic instinct guided your previous decisions; more than intuition. Call it discretion. A flaming cocktail of traditional midwestern upbringing, a dash of guile, a spritz of poise, shake with bitters of post-collegiate job hunts and dead-end relationships. This drink had lost its flavor; these outmoded social constructs would no longer be tolerated. So you embraced discretion’s Janus-twin, insouciance—which felt every bit as tenuous—ignoring your intuition and swearing an oath to this untried dogma. And it was already yielding rewards: a timely arrival assisted by your willful ignorance of the road construction barricades between your apartment and the reception hall. The side of your car may be caked with mud, but for once, you’re on-time. That little black dress swinging from your backseat hanger as you rumble into the parking lot is merely a backup plan, a thread of skepticism, your last stitch of inhibition.
Carlos and Lola, sharing a smoke on the hood of the car a few spaces away, signal you over as you emerge from your dented sedan. Lola offers you a flask. You pretend to enjoy the warm vodka, lie about meeting someone inside, and slink away toward the building.
There’s a guy you once dated, Jim, standing in the drink queue, his back turned. He’s clean-shaven, wearing a tight suit, hair pulled back in a ponytail. The few times you’d gone out, he’d only ever worn organic cotton hoodies, thrift-store corduroys, and high-top vans. You pretend to ignore Jim as he chats up the dishwater blonde in line. Her skirt, short and tight, strangles a pair of tan, muscular, spin-bitch thighs. A workout freak; too much makeup. Definitely not his type. He pays for her drink, leaves a generous tip, winks politely as they brush past and cross the dance floor to a reserved table. They pull their chairs together, face each other, knees touching, giggling childishly. You flirt with the bartender. He leers back, a strand of greasy hair covering