The party, as it turns out, is a wedding one; he feels a little out of place here, but then he feels almost out of place anywhere. The song playing as he walks in is all eagerness and joy, nervous joy but joy nevertheless. His friend points to a girl and says "You know you would like her, come on" and he lets himself think so, for a moment.
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She is still, to her own embarrassment, in the bathroom, several minutes later; wishing she could be anyone else, anywhere else. The girls vamp for themselves, for the Other, in the mirrors; rehearsing spells, tricks, moments which they hope will happen, which may well end up in love; or at least a feeling of...something about to happen. She feels as if she can't unleash a thing, or rather that something has happened and maybe she can handle it; just.
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She steps, warily, out the door. If she doesn't treat him like a problem, then he won't be one. He will be here at any time, she feels, or tries to feel; the anonymous one, the one who is beyond any words, mostly. He never did say very much, she remembers, but then sometimes he wouldn't shut up. She smiles to herself, which is armor enough for now.
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That brave girl, she is walking right up to him. She can't look, she can't not look; she sees them interact and wants to be her, despite herself. The inner flood begins and won't end. What does she have, she wonders? Nerve? Yes, yes. I can do that; yes, I can do that; and once he brushes her off (is she willing this?) then up she will walk. To confront him is braver, but she will need a drink.
He doesn't dismiss that girl just yet; but now that she is looking at him, she has the uneasy feeling she is being watched by someone else, and has no way of knowing who.
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The party runs late; despite his friend's orders/suggestions, he doesn't take up with the girl, who is green and naive and terribly pretty, because he has heard a rumor - that she is over with him, missing him, the rumors change with the winds, the hours. She is there, at least, but how can he know until he gets there? He is still to weak to just walk there. Still she must accept me in some way; I am not returning with a new woman, expecting a purple carpet and adoration. I just want to rest in my own bed, with her.
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The one watching her is perhaps a bit demented, but fundamentally trustworthy; he has ways of seeing that others lack, and vice versa. He is attracted to her not because she is beautiful (she doubts that now, anyway) but because she has a sort of power; a power that he admires. She has nothing to lose, and neither does he.
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