from weddings with a majority of unacquainted guests, and in his experience it fades as the evening and the alcohol progress.
In other respects, this particular party is unlike anything he’s ever experienced. The bar off the main room is lit entirely in blue. There are not a great number of obvious literary costumes, but there are scarlet letters and dictionary-page fairy wings and an Edgar Allan Poe with a fake raven on his shoulder. A picture-perfect Daisy Buchanan sips a martini at the bar. A woman in a little black dress has Emily Dickinson poems printed on her stockings. A man in a suit has a towel draped over his shoulder. A number of people could easily fit into works by Austen or Dickens.
Someone in the corner is dressed as a highly recognizable author or, Zachary thinks as he gets a closer look, it might actually be that highly recognizable author and Zachary has a panicked realization that some of the people who write the books on his bookshelves are actual people who go to parties.
His favorite costume is worn by a woman in a long white gown and a simple gold crown, a reference he can’t quite place until she turns around and the gown’s draped back includes a pointed pair of ears hanging from a hood and a tail trailing along with the train. He remembers dressing as Max from Where the Wild Things Are himself when he was five, though his costume was nowhere near as elegant.
Zachary looks for golden necklaces but finds none with bees or keys or swords. The only key he spots is rigged to appear as though it is disappearing into the back of someone’s neck, but that key he recognizes as a clever comic-book reference.
He finds himself wishing the proper people to talk to would light up or have hovering indicator arrows over their heads or dialogue options to choose from. He doesn’t always wish that real life were more like video games, but in certain situations it would be helpful. Go here. Talk to this person. Feel like you’re making progress even though you don’t know what it is you’re trying to do, exactly.
He is increasingly distracted by the details when he should be focusing on jewelry. He orders one of the literary cocktail creations at the bar, a Drowning Ophelia made with gin and lemon and fennel syrup, served with a spring of rosemary and a napkin with an appropriate Hamlet quote printed on it. Other guests sip Hemingway Daiquiris and Vespers garnished with complicated curls of lemon. Flutes of sparkling wine are served with ribbons that read “Drink Me” wrapped around their stems.
Bowls on tables are filled with escaped typewriter keys. Candles illuminate glass holders wrapped in book pages. One hallway is festooned with writing implements (fountain pens, pencils, quills) hanging from the ceiling at various heights.
A woman in a beaded gown and matching mask sits in a corner at a typewriter, tapping out tiny stories on scraps of paper and giving them to guests that pass by. The one she hands to Zachary reads like a long-form fortune cookie:
He wanders alone but safe in his loneliness.
Confused but comforted by his confusion.
A blanket of bewilderment to hide himself under.
He hasn’t managed to escape attention, even pretending to be the ghost at the feast. He wonders if the masks make people braver, more likely to strike up conversations with the hint of anonymity. Other wandering ghosts approach with remarks about the drinks and the atmosphere. Sharing typewriter stories is a popular conversation starter and he gets to read a few different tales, including one about a stargazing hedgehog and another about a house built over a stream with the sound of the water echoing through the rooms. He overhears someone mention that there are people doing private storytelling sessions in other rooms but speaks to no one who has yet been on the receiving end of one. He gets confirmation that yes, it is indeed that famous author across the room and by the way there’s another one just over there that he hadn’t even noticed.
In the blue-tinged bar he finds himself conversing about cocktails with a man in a suit wearing one of the house-provided masks and a Hello, My Name Is tag with “Godot” written on it stuck to his lapel. Zachary notes the name of a Godot-recommended bourbon on the back of his printed-out ticket.
“Excuse me,” a lady in an oddly childlike pale blue dress and white knee socks says and then Zachary realizes that she’s talking to him. “Have you seen the cat around here by any chance?” she asks.
“The cat?” Zachary guesses her to be a brunette Alice of the Wonderland variety until she is joined by another lady in an identical ensemble and then it is obvious, if slightly disconcerting, that they are the twins from The Shining.
“The hotel has a resident cat,” the first twin explains. “We’ve been looking for her all night but so far no luck.”
“Help us look?” her doppelgänger asks and Zachary agrees even though it sounds like a potentially ominous invitation given their appearance.
They decide to split up to cover more ground and Zachary wanders back near the dance floor, pausing to listen to the jazz band, trying to place the familiar-sounding piece of music.
He peers into the shadows behind the band even though he thinks it unlikely that a cat would hang around with all the noise.
Someone taps him on the shoulder.
The woman dressed as Max, taller than he expected with her crown, stands behind him.
“Would you like to dance?” she asks.
Say something suave, a voice in Zachary’s head commands.
“Sure,” is what his mouth comes up with, and the voice inside his head throws up its arms in disappointment, but the king of the wild things doesn’t seem to mind.
The details of her costume are even more impressive up close. Her gold mask matches her crown, both cut from leather in simple shapes and treated with a rich metallic finish. Beneath the mask her eyes are lined with gold and even her eyelashes sparkle with the same golden glitter sprinkled throughout her upswept dark hair that Zachary now suspects might be a wig. White buttons lining the front of her gown are practically invisible against the fabric, secured with gold thread.
Her perfume is even perfectly suited to the costume, an earthy blend that somehow smells like dirt and sugar at the same time.
After a minute of silent not quite awkward dancing, once Zachary has remembered how to lead and found the rhythm of the song (some jazz standard he recognizes but couldn’t name), he decides he should probably say something, and after mentally grasping for ideas he settles on the first thing he thought when he saw her earlier.
“Your Max costume is far superior to my Max costume,” he says. “I’m relieved I didn’t wear mine, it would have been embarrassing.”
The woman smiles, the type of knowing almost smirk Zachary associates with classic film stars.