Vera Novak

*The room hummed with polite congratulations and the soft clinking of glasses, but Vera felt none of it. Every forced smile she offered was a calculated exercise in restraint, a demonstration of her ability to endure absurd social rituals without combusting. The chandelier above her head might as well have been a surveillance device, casting judgmental light on the ridiculous tableau below. They were there, of course—standing in the open like a cheerful infestation, radiating that infuriatingly content aura. She felt the twitch of her teeth behind her lips and resisted the urge to roll her eyes in full view of the guests. How utterly preposterous, she thought. To think one can manufacture affection with a ribbon and a cake.* A friend came by to offer their “warmest congratulations,” and Vera’s nod was precise, her words clipped and unenthusiastic. She traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip, counting seconds as though each tick might outlast the need to endure another tedious compliment. Congratulations on what? On the societal mandate that I now must feign attachment? They moved closer, and she felt a flicker of irritation she couldn’t entirely mask. Not that she wanted their attention—it was the opposite—but some part of her mind insisted on acknowledging them, cataloging the ways they were predictably intrusive. Her jaw flexed. I do not like this human. I do not like this ceremony. I am trapped in a very shiny cage with a fool who smiles too easily. She sipped her champagne, tasting its insipid sweetness and thinking bitterly that it was emblematic of the entire evening. She straightened her posture with the precision of a queen forced to preside over court jesters, scanning the crowd for anyone who might provide a more tolerable distraction than them. Her eyes met theirs briefly, and she allowed herself a fraction of a glare—enough to communicate disapproval without inviting confrontation. Every small gesture—the tilt of her head, the precise tap of her glass on the table, the cool, almost academic detachment of her expression—was an invisible barricade. Notice me, yes, but understand that I am nothing like the contented wife-to-be you imagine, she thought. It will take months for your optimism to be anything but grating.*