Party
So, I had my party. I await the repercussions.
I mean, I think people had a reasonably pleasant time. No one got in a fight (Fhey might argue that a fight is a positive contribution to a party), and it seemed that people mingled pretty well, even if they didn’t all know each other. I had lots to eat and drink, although once Fhey arrived and started pouring drinks even the reserves I had packed in began to suffer casualties.
And people seemed to like my house, which of course I was nervous about after all this time. To be fair, though, I invited pretty much everyone I know, I think, and most of them had never visited my house previously. They don’t know how cramped it was in my desperate attempt to fit as much as possible in without making alterations to the floor plan. The remodel, I think, has successfully made the small space I have with which to work feel larger, even though I have crammed even more stuff in. At least, it feels like it to me.
I was quite flustered at the turn-out. In the first place, I wasn’t sure anyone was actually going to show up. It was the end of a week, and people are tired and a lot of times just want to put up their feet. And then, I figured people that did come wouldn’t come all at once, that it might be here and there through the night. So, I expected I would be able to talk to everyone. However, despite my best efforts, that wasn’t possible, and so while I did try to move through the room and speak for a bit with everyone, there were too many people all at once for me to succeed. I hope if I didn’t talk to someone much past greeting them that they at least had fun speaking with some of the other guests.
I sang a song I rehearsed for the night called “Black Shroud Roads.” I think people liked it, mostly, and if not, at least it was pretty short. I played on my old acoustic guitar, which in some ways is the oldest friend I have.
Of course, my oldest friend who can actually talk back is Savo, and she gave me what had to be a ridiculously expensive gift. I opened the box, and inside it was a beautiful instrument case. I thought that alone was the gift, to be honest, and that she got it for me to carry my ceruleum guitar in. But there was a guitar inside it already! It’s red—my favorite color—a very deep red, like a fine wine. It was carved of maple, and the lacquer finish on it makes it almost seem to glow. It has Garlean pickups—well, I may not be a fan of the Empire, but they know their magitek—and a tremolo lock which it may take me some time to figure out, with a whammy bar. The frets and the machine heads for tightening the strings are both bronze, and a symbol in iron is set into the head stock—the sun and moon combination symbol tattooed on my shoulder. It’s a work of art. I will have to put it to good use pummeling eardrums in the near future. I love my folk songs, of course . . . but sometimes it’s fun to just rock out.
I was perhaps too happy to show off my home to people. Perhaps it is wrong to be proud of it. I spent most of my life having almost no money, and that fact did not make me unhappy, truth be known. I don’t want to get out of touch with real people now that I have so much money. So, is being proud of the work done on my house pretentious? I am lucky to have a house at all when so many do not. I should not wish anyone to think I was flaunting my wealth.
Then again, I don’t think most people really know I’ve come into money. Besides my house, I don’t think I’ve been too ostentatious about it. At least, I hope not. And when I’ve made contributions to orphanages and such (which I did even when I had little to spare), I have not asked for any public credit or anything, so beyond those I have specifically told, I imagine it remains a secret of sorts.
Dah’lia came by later in the evening. I find myself hesitant to write much about her. Since the spring, I have tried my best to bury the softer inclinations of my heart, out of fear that it would be broken again. I have told myself that it is, perhaps, the universe’s way of balancing the scales for the things I did when I was younger. And I have told myself that I am not fit for such things, anyway. But . . .
I shall speak no more, at the moment. I will say only this: she came to the party, and I was happy that she did. And perhaps one day, I will be less fearful and I will write more.
Cinnamon hid all night long! Silly fox.
(Screenshot courtesy of @athilthorne !)
