Debut Flash: 'Stuck in the corner at a party' by Deborah Zafer

‘It’s a fact that ugly people can’t write about love,’ Siobhan’s boyfriend says. ‘They don’t know what it’s like to be desired.’

‘But you do,’ he says, ‘don’t you?’

He smells of whisky.

We are standing by the cheese table. I reach over, place brie on a cracker and eat it. Siobhan has been gone for ages.

‘I guess,’ I say, ‘but it’s not really what I write about.’

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘What else is there?’

The brie feels heavy in my mouth like I might be chewing it forever.

I sip red wine and think about how to answer.

‘Lots of things,’ I say, ‘are more interesting than love. Love has been well explored over the years. I write more about friendship, grief, family.’

‘That’s all love though,’ he says, leaning across me to scoop camembert with his hands.

‘Love is underneath everything,’ he says, ‘whether you like it or not.’

‘Maybe,’ I say, scanning the room to see if Siobhan is returning or if I can see anyone else.

‘Do you?‘ he says.

‘Pardon me?’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Do I like what?’ I ask, drinking more wine, still scanning.

‘Love? Do you like love being underneath everything?’ He makes a gesture to indicate the air between us. ‘Even this conversation?’

I drink more wine.

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I say. ‘I’m going to look for Siobhan. Nice chatting.’

He grabs my arm.

‘You’re just another uptight Jewish bitch,’ he says low-voiced, ‘like the rest of them.’

‘The rest of who?’ I ask.

‘All of you, the same,’ he says.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

I gulp my wine and head for the door.

I guess love wasn’t underneath our conversation, but something else entirely.

And if I am sorry at all, it is only for Siobhan.