The Story of a Night Party

All the parties always went on a few hours longer than they ought. People began to fidget, not knowing whether to leave or stay on, they stalled from minute to minute trying to decide whether they wanted to leave or stay on. The boisterous drunk trying to make conversation for everyone, the depressive ones staring stonily at nothingness, and the sober ones shiftily eyeing each other and the clock on the wall overhead. she smiled again, her lips curling up into that ironic twist that had made her so infamous around the office.
The Snarky Bitch: that’s who she was. They thought she didn’t know, but she could tell. She could tell from the abrupt stop in conversations when she walked in, the knowing smiles they exchanged when she left, those infuriating little inside-jokes they would laugh about in her presence. She’d realized right away that she was never going to be welcome here, and had decided to make it her job to be as abrasive as possible. She wasn’t welcome, was she? Well, she didn’t want to be!
She covered her eyes with her hands and tried to calm down. It had been two months here, she ought to have gotten used to it by now. Fragments of conversation began to float in. She froze and almost involuntarily, began to listen.
“But of course, metaphysical poetry must necessarily be read in its contextualized framework of the period that is commonly called – but it is a gross error to call it so, although this is open to much debate, something I talk about in my last book, you know. Yes what was I saying? – The Renaissance. I mean someone like Donne, aspiring courtier, flamboyant in his romances –” Here the speaker paused to drain his glass, before continuing, “But of course, people like Rowling are very over-rated. I mean what has she really contributed beyond some copying and bringing together bits and pieces of a million fairy tales and adding some adolescent angst and growing pains to it?”