Someone Else

Penny could tell a smooth lie in a blink, so often did she pretend to be someone else. 

She and her date had waited dutifully as part of the black SUV receiving line at The Venue, a place on NYC’s water made popular by American celebrities fond of formal dining and evening dancing. The greeter opened her door and assisted her rose pink ball gown onto a carpeted stairway, at the top of which more greeters secured their personal effects and a butler offered the first glass of champagne, directing them to a long, outdoor balcony. Already Penny was calming her breath. 

The finance world was ruled by giants. She was still short in six-inch heels hidden beneath her gown, all cumbersome against plush carpets, and Penny nearly stumbled toward the pre-dinner crowd. Appetizers. She had hoped they were too late for the mingling and the appetizers. Her date, Matthew, a perfectly nice gentleman in one of many blue navy suits, straightened her toward a group of familiar faces. Penny braced herself by exchanging her emptied glass with one full of rosé when the butler, who was a similar shade of her own brown, made eye contact and accidentally saw her soul.

The people were perfectly fine and amiable as she approached. Privately educated. She sucked in her soft curves and set her left hand on Matthew’s arm, revealing a sparkling diamond on her finger. She responded to friendly inquiries about the ring’s designer in a low, confident tone. The conversation turned to honeymoon destinations and then favorite fine dining in those regions. She covered her lips with her hand, hiding a gentle laugh, as if she had not lived her life with Penny’s gleeful belly chortles and sticky fingers at tables of banana leaves heaped with rice and lechon, and no utensils to speak of.

Liar.

Dinner was in a formal room decorated in gold detail with a band playing classical jazz in the backdrop. The couple to her right was young and eager to discuss work, asking questions at a volume the executive could hear from across their table. The couple to Matthew’s left was established and had nothing to say between themselves and little to say to their seat neighbors. The wife strategically moved her spinach around her plate.

Penny excused herself to the bathroom, next to which the butler who saw her stood at attention. He nodded when she paused, and Penny’s shoulders slumped against the back wall with a puff of air. 

“You do this often?” He asked in a familiar, thick accent. 

Penny nodded.

“Hate it?” He gestured before them.

She shot him a look. “I love it.” Liar, liar.

From across the room, Matthew searched for her. They were clearing plates for dessert, and couples joined the band for a slow dance. Penny had grown up shaking her hips during festivals celebrating every major holiday and quasi-holiday. Penny’s partner dance was the Tinikling, when couples skipped between smacking logs of bamboo hungry for soft ankles, amid squeals of laughter, or pain.

She quieted the sway of Penny’s hips. The butler gave her another look, and was about to pull for Penny again, she knew. So she pushed from the wall, stuffing that spirit back into the gown and the ring and the cool, straight-spined woman who flourished after business school. 

She blinked. Liar.

Photo by Aritra Roy on Unsplash