Matt Runkle
It was one of those parties that refused to flush, that doubled me over, that clenched. The hosts had invited us under suspicious motives. You're paranoid, Glenne told me, and I went and stood by the bathroom door.
Whoever was in there was taking their time. Water ran, then loudly switched positions, then ran for what seemed like hours more. Someone came and stood beside me, and shimmied, and although I kept my eye on the door, I could sense it was one of the hosts. I finally had to sneak a look. She was sweeping the hallway, not shimmying, and when her eyes met mine, she used her foot to extricate a clump of dust from beneath the broom.
An obvious witch.
Once inside the bathroom, I could again inhale with vigor, and I calmly searched the air for shit. Nothing to speak of really, nothing beyond the tiniest blip. Glenne had warned me of how strangely antiseptic these hosts could be. Glenne, of course, at some point during this warning, had decided to merge with the crowd that evening, and was now outside like a periscope, like a vampire bat, and was spreading her finely tuned pheromones with glee.