‘Masquerade’ by Wiley Wei-Chiun Ho

We see each other infrequently now, usually at your parties. Or whenever you need a good cry on my shoulder.

You adore fancy parties, cooking for everyone, being mistaken for a woman of leisure with all the time in the world to make dinner for twelve or more. I know better than anyone you’re not a trophy wife, despite your pearl-lacquered nails and perfectly toned body, which you’ve wrapped tonight in a champagne-coloured gown, the plunging neckline outlined in angora. 

I see you’ve invited new friends this evening, and their plus-ones. As you gradually bring out — like fresh canapés — little details about yourself throughout the evening, these acquaintances will be genuinely surprised to learn that you’re a single mom. How, besides a busy career, you make time for bake sales, sports games, the arts, and — of course — friendship. At this, you catch my eye even though I’m standing apart from the others, raise your glass of sparkling water, and send me a wink. You introduce me as your oldest friend, leaving ‘oldest’ to interpretation. You don’t mention how far back we go. Or the rehab. 

Your expensively dressed guests turn to take stock of me. Loose grey hair, faded sweater, saggy pants. I can tell, from their slightly bemused looks, that they are surprised we are friends.

I tolerate the smirks because I have dressed for myself, despite your warning it would be a dressy affair. It’s my protest costume, a subtle middle finger at the one-percenters masquerading as the middle class, the put-together pretending to be all together. I know that you — the flying phoenix tonight in your resplendent dress — grudgingly admire this about me. We know each other, after all.