The Housemaid

o0. shameless

o0. shameless

I refuse to step even one closed-toe-heel out into the foyer to greet guests. Nonna at first very gently nudges me with one of her pointy elbows that are enshrouded in the worst amount of fabric that has ever been used to construct a dress.

If Minerva is the sofa, then I am the fucking loveseat. The pattern of the matching gowns could have been cut from the same cloth: a table cloth from the 1960s. The skirt reminds me very strongly of a used dust ruffle, the shoulders, creampuffs (hard), and the material, that of a fraternity sofa.

“I’m going to kill myself.” I say a loud to no one in particular.

Minerva shoves a tray into my arms, to which I accept with some strain, “Serve the drinks first.”

I follow, with short steps, careful to not trip because what could be more embarrassing? Falling in a crowded room of guests while dressed so hideously that good looks are not a saving grace but barely noticed due to the ugliness of the gown? OR being mistaken as a real sofa and forced to succumb to some inappropriate and awkward explanations?

I do not have much time left to ponder. I exchange a fake smile with Benjamin Drake, the youngest son of the Drake household. He recently turned twenty-one and his ability to hold his liquor has severely decreased with every attempt in nearly every public family function he has attended.

“You look,” he pauses to carelessly sip champagne, “fucking hideous. Like, seriously, I look at you and I just want to donate J. Crew to you honestly.”

I resist the urge to growl, and at that resistance an audible moan escapes my sorry lips. “Benjamin, seriously,” I sarcastically add, “Don’t be an asshole.”

“I’m not,” He says with a sway, the alcohol clearly having an effect on his motor skills, “I’m not saying you’re ugly, it’s just the dress is so hideous that I can’t even look at you. I mean, damn, what was the mistress of the house thinking about when she picked that out?”

“I think you need to sober up.” I say, ignoring his question, “You appear to have had too much to drink sir.”

“Oh nooo, Benjamin’s had too much to drink!” He sings loudly, swinging his flute of champagne and wasting driblets over an older guest a couple feet away, “Is that cute Cuban here from the last party?”

I narrow my eyes thoughtfully, yet with caution I answer his question, “Yes… He’s here with his parents.”

“He’s fucking hot.” Benjamin admits, licking his bottom lip, “Wonder if he’s up to something casual, like a blowjob in the guest bathroom.”

Oh my fuck.

I detach Benjamin’s fingers from his glass and lower it onto my tray, “I want to tell you this one thing; don’t you dare hook-up in my room again. I’ll kill you and make it look like an accident.”

Benjamin saunters away, his hips twitching from side to side in laughable exaggeration. I carry my tray, carefully side-stepping other intoxicated guests and work the rest of the room. I hide-away occasionally in secluded corners to down a flute and then discard the evidence in a growing fern’s pot or hidden away behind a banquet tier of hors d’oeuvres.

If I am cleaning the damage afterwards may as well be a little hammered.

As I make my way across the room once more, this time with a tray of assorted crackers and exotic cheeses, I patiently look around the room for any familiar faces. I recognize many however the only face my eyes have seemed to monopolize is of Anthony Drake, the oldest son. He’s thirty-one this year and absolutely eye-catching as usual. He’s relinquished his blazer jacket and draped the expensive material over his arm and I imagine myself as that article of clothing, hanging over his arm, pressed against his muscles—