[dropcap]J[/dropcap]ust stop being a fucking PUSSY and TAKE IT, John says through a wet grin, and pushes a grass-covered ping pong ball in front of Nicole’s face. Nervous glances are exchanged throughout the party as we seek a way to cut the tension, the tightness around our eyes asking when our mandate of politeness is out the window. Nicole is too drunk to recognize the pedestal John constructs perpetually, and we all inwardly sigh with relief. It’s his backyard, after all.
John says babe, get me a drink and his fiancée tells him to get his own. See what I put up with? He says. It’s all a joke, just a joke that we agreed we wouldn’t put up with anymore. But considerate patrons don’t make waves. We avoid aggression like a dreaded figure that looms in the darkness beyond warm porch lights. We dodge and parry its heavy blows in the hopes that it will tire. We smile, say nothing, and hope it hollows out its own grave before someone innocent is buried. Of course, if someone is made a victim we will of course say something but no one has been hurt (and Nicole didn’t really notice) so it’s no big deal and we don’t need to say anything to John right now—It’s his backyard, after all.
If I think I saw John sneak into his sister-in-law’s bedroom at 2am a year ago and I never told anyone, when would have been the appropriate time to say something? I don’t want to make waves until I’m certain, I say. That’s appropriate. The only person who doesn’t care about appropriateness is John, yet we say nothing: we wait until we’re certain.
The game of beer pong eventually falls flat, and John decides we are not worth his time. He leaves the door open for us to hear him laugh at his fiancée and say I don’t give a fuck what they think. Then silence. Relief bounces contagiously through the party. We are deflating, but we stopper the guilt by apologizing for someone else and politely moving on.
