Pink Champagne

The party was nearing its climax, and though it was not fancy dress, everybody was wearing a costume. Edward stood at the edge of a group of particularly dressed up strangers. The man to his left was about forty and wore a black pin-striped suit jacket with pale, purposely ripped jeans. His hair was messy and long and kept underneath a red flat-peaked cap. To that man's left, holding his arm as comfortably as one might hold a glowing green tube of uranium was a woman who could have been half his age. She wore a short white dress that revealed the very top of her thighs and a waistcoat that probably came with her boyfriend's jacket. Her hair was cut short like a man's and it had blue in it. This couple, backs slightly facing Edward, were listening to another man speak to them. He wore white chinos and a pink v-neck vest and a black tie, which was fastened in a formidable knot. His belt buckle was in the shape of a revolver, though it did not prevent his trousers from sagging. He had no hair. He spoke to the couple and, with some distaste, to Edward about the poor state music industry, and he told them with a flourish that it wasn't worth saving because music was no longer real.

Edward sighed the long, heavy sigh of a man that had no words to say, and no person to hear them anyway, and wandered off in search of a toilet. The party was in a house that contained no art, pictures or plants, but was crisply furnished in flat-screen televisions, state-of-the-art stereos and white walls which were not to be looked at. The furnishings were captioned with admiration by Clare's guests.

"The subtle curvature of this stereo quietly points out the determination of designers to avoid the linear movement of pop-culture," A man wearing a fine, white suit with trainers and a bandanna asserted.

"You're a cunt," Edward suggested, and the man smiled and nodded back. He flitted like a fly, bumping carelessly into guests and being shooed with a nonchalant hand, until he found a toilet. He locked the door behind him and looked at himself in the mirror which was lit by a faint, green glow. He was unshaven in three days and his beard was an untidy abstract of crop circles that melted into a sacred cornfield of blonde hair. He wore a plain black tee which absorbed the light around it so that Edward himself was nearly invisible. His dark jeans were tight and did not have any tears in the material.

Edward took from his pocket a black permanent marker and removed the lid. When he touched the tip to the mirror, the green glow turned a pale blue. He scrawled the words "YOU ARE WHO YOU PRETEND TO BE" and replaced the cap. Edward undid his belt and the flies of his jeans and began to piss onto the closed lid of the toilet. He slowly turned three hundred and sixty degrees, and most of the floor was wet. Once he was finished he stepped out of his shoes and placed them neatly on the counter by the sink. He then removed his jeans, t-shirt and boxer shorts, folded them one at a time, and put them gently by his shoes. He did not look at himself in the mirror which glowed a faint red and he returned to the party. Clare finally greeted him.

"Pink Champagne?"

He nodded, and followed her to the kitchen. There had been a shift in the room and a thick hush had settled over everyone. People muttered and pointed at Edward, and said things like, "who's his designer?" and "there's a strong European influence on the model of that outfit". Whilst Clare poured champagne into shot glasses Edward was approached by a woman who was fifty. She was wearing tight green leggings and a white cardigan.

"Who is your designer darling? You simply must tell." She placed one had upon his chest, measuring Edward's texture. Edward drank the champagne in one gulp.

"Someone is thirsty tonight, another?" Edward nodded and Clare topped up glass.

The old woman stared at Edward, who stared back.

"Well...?" Edward finished his second shot which equated to half the bottle.

"I made it myself." Edward smirked and snatched the tiny bottle from between Clare's fingers and finished it. Somebody in the room gasped.

"Don't be absurd. You're a nobody." With the venom of a cobra she spat a series of profanities and stormed out of the room. Somewhere a small glass struck the pure white walls, stretching pink fingers across the wall.

"Don't mind Panda, she's a total leech." Clare smiled and placed a subtle finger upon his chest. "It is a fabulous piece, however."

The party was uneventful the following hours. People spoke empty words and consumed pink champagne. Clare disappeared into the white walls of the house and Edward stood alone, admired and drunk. A woman, naked from the waist up approached Edward. Her nipples pointed to God, and to the future of Paris catwalks.

"Hey, are you wearing Dominique, too?" Edward kissed her politely on the cheek and looked for the toilet. He weaved with the clumsiness of a butterfly, and people were careful and appreciative. Edward locked the door behind him and began to put on his clothes. They were where he had left them. The toilet seat remained closed, and there was piss everywhere. Somebody had done a shit on the toilet lid; a small, pretty specimen of faeces. Once he was dressed, Edward turned off the cold blue light, and left the room in a warm, golden glow.

Nobody in the party was fully dressed. Most people were completely naked, and nobody was aroused. Edward made his way to the front door. The guests shrank away from him as he walked past and hissed dissent. Panda, now fully naked and describing to a group of young males how her cunt was designed in Japan, hissed a series of profanities towards Edward and the room erupted. The man to her left, wearing nothing but his right sock, spat on Edward's back. He had an unimpressive penis and Edward thanked him. Edward made his way through the sea of cocks, assholes and cunts and shut the door behind him. Clare watched him from her bedroom window with a sad smile before retiring to the party with a lonely glass of pink champagne.