Historia cum Ioanna

The original: https://jerrywbrown.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/02/The-Birthday-Party-Brush-Katherine.pdf

I did not expect it to be such an ostentatious celebration of my birthday. 

I arrived at the modest restaurant three blocks away from my apartment to meet my secret mistress, who had, just few days ago, informed me to see her for a “little occasion.” I was in a pair of khaki trousers and a milky white striped shirt, both tenderly ironed by my wife until not a wrinkle remained. She had helped me into my brown plaid coat upon my leave, a leave I only obtained through deception—an excuse of work.

My mistress noticed me at once as I arrived. She wore an elegant hat with a wide brim and a dainty black dress, waving at me with a blithe smile.

“How was your day,” she asked delightfully as she approached. 

“Nothing special,” I replied, wondering what her, “little occasion” could possibly be. 

“Then,” she said, almost singing, “I hope tonight will make it special.”

Do not, I commented to myself. It was my birthday, and that was likely the “little occasion.” But I prefer a humble night, as secret lovers—keeping things secret and discreet.

We walked inside the restaurant. It was pretty narrow, with everything packed together. I would dub it a bar rather than a serious restaurant. She led me to a banquette by the window and ordered two glasses of wine. Great, I thought, everything is simple and artless, nobody will notice us or whatsoever.

However, in the midst of enjoying this humble night, the headwaiter brought it in, the birthday cake. In fact, not just a birthday cake: it was a glossy confection with layered molten chocolate, crowned with a pompously pink candle burning in the centre. Suddenly, all eyes were on us. It was still acceptable until the violin-and-piano orchestra came forth to play that damn birthday song!

I believe my face must’ve turned terrifyingly pale, showing my overwhelming consternation. Otherwise, it would be impossible to explain why people suddenly started clapping and pattering—were they trying to placate my embarrassment? I must have looked horrible and unsightly.

Drowned in a crushing wave of guilt and fear, I can’t help but let dread overtake my reason, the dread that people around would remember my face and spread rumours about my relationship. The thought that any of my acquaintances might be present, recognising me with a stranger woman, sent chills down my spine. Panic surged as I acknowledge the possibility of a camera present—a CAMERA—capturing my every move. Where was it? I had to find the camera and destroy any evidence of my affair!

An incessant buzzing filled me throughout the celebration, a constant reminder of my betrayal. I couldn’t escape the idea of a heartbroken face of my sobbing wife as she learned of my disloyalty. Guilt pierced my heart like spears, each pang sharper than the last.

Turned out guilt is easily transferable to anger, as the pretty women sitting across the banquette began to look more like a fiend with every passing second. My anger erupted. I stood up and proceeded to her, whispered, “let us not see each other again.” Quick and curt and unkind.

Without a backward glance, I fled, not daring to look back at my shameful indiscretion.