Fourth Impressions

Eeeeeep! It's 10:30pm and I have yet to complete my Blogtember post for today. Today was such a long day that I am fighting sleep as a struggle to type this. And it surely doesn't help that my tummy hurts too. Ugh, now I'm ranting and complaining. But I am so indescribably excited about writing a fictional piece for today's post (even though it may not go up today). So for now, this serves as a placeholder, until I can find the strength to keep my eyes open :(.

UPDATE: Here we go!

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Write a very short fictional story that starts with the sentence: "To say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century."

If only... Photo Credit

If only... Photo Credit

To say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century.  First impressions are everything and he had already given me a few do overs. It turns out that  I only had three chances to get it right and this was the third one.  There was that time with the wine glass which shattered at his feet as I shakily tried to place it on the bar, and the time I rose so abruptly from my seat that I flipped a bowl of tomato soup into the lap of his designer suit. Oh, and I wish I could forget how, after playfully suggesting hours before via text message that "third times a charm, huh?", he decided he'd had enough of me stomping on his toe with my stiletto and excused himself from the dance floor early. Shit, that's three. So I guess I only had four chances to get it right, but I didn't have much hope for it as my track record still had me at 0 and 3. The likelihood of success this time was some negative number that I couldn't be bothered to calculate, but I knew I had to impress him. It was "do or die." I'm being dramatic. But it was definitely "do or never see him again." I mean, how many times can you ruin a man's clothes and mildly injure him before he decides to avoid you at all costs? 

I roughly tugged a tissue over my mouth. Red lips were too sexy, and maybe even read too desperate at this point. I was going for "I'm not a total screw up, please like me," not "I haven't thought of anyone else since the day you skipped me in the Trader Joe's line, please sleep with me." Although the latter was true and I surely couldn't say I'd mind it. It was technically the fourth date after all. I sighed at my reflection in the mirror and reluctantly chose a baby doll pink lipstick. If I was destined to be embarrassed, at least I could be attractively so. 

As I pinned back my side-swept bangs, I hoped the fact that tonight was a dinner party, and not just a dinner date, would help to steady me. All eyes, his eyes, would not be on me. This night wasn't about me awkwardly, and uncharacteristically, fumbling for words to respond to the obligatory first date compliment. Madison would be there with her new photographer boyfriend that she met at Paris Fashion Week. We would all have to listen yet again to the "fantastic" story of how they met, which I didn't mind under these circumstances. The less time I had to cause some sort of unnatural disaster, the better. And although he'd be seated across from me, Jordan would surely sit next to me and poke fun at Madison's half-hearted attempt at playing hostess. At the least, I'd get a good laugh and a good meal out of tonight.  

Pulling my apartment door closed behind me and walking through the lobby, I convinced myself that it was possible to walk out of Maialino's tonight with my dignity.  I expected to peak out into the crisp air of an Indian summer evening, but instead, I watched rain drops pour from the sky. Looking down at my strappy sandals, I clicked my heels together three times. No such luck. I huffed loudly as I dragged myself back to my apartment to change. 

Why did Madison have to know everyone? And why did she just have to invite him?