BEFORE I DIE, I PRAY TO BE BORN | ✓

▬▬ 15

SUNDAY
23.09.1990
DORIAN

               Alone at the table, I already struggle to sit still. The dozen conversations occurring in the hall at once grate my ears; the piano, a friend who stabs me in the back at every fissure that would otherwise be blessed silence.

I hate sitting like this: both feet planted to the floor, spine upright, and hands symmetrical on my lap or rested against the table edge. It's as if my skeleton misses the bone that makes it bearable for everyone else and now I'm deformed to only be comfortable when my posture is slouched and my feet rolled.

I'm too distracted by the crawling under my skin to notice when Sally takes her seat so that when her presence abruptly arrives in my consciousness, I flinch.

Whoever planned this fundraiser chose large round tables and we have to share ours with the Hoffmans (which I wasn't made aware of until we arrived). The two hours that have passed with everyone else "mingling" and me bolted to my seat have made the intrusion no easier to cope with.

I find Elijah across the room where he talks to a man in a suit identical to half the men here. He feels my stare and looks back. Though I'd normally flee him, tonight, he's the best support I have.

But Elijah doesn't come to my rescue. Contrarily, he nods his head to the side in a way that can't be misunderstood to mean anything but 'talk to her'.

I'd rather die. Still, I force myself to turn to her. 'Hi, Sally.'

She peels her attention from the gum foil she's folding into ever-smaller rectangles (how does she make the act look like she's too good for this place, like she had to cancel much cooler plans to be here, but if it were me, it would become a nervous tick, I'd look like a rookie shoplifter passing a security guard?) and looks me over.

'I'm Dorian. We went to primary school together.'

'I know who you are.'

I nod, palms growing clammy. (That was a stupid thing to say.) 'How are you?' What's the right amount of eye contact that won't sentence me to neither creep nor jerk? 'I haven't seen you in ages — I mean, I see you every week at synagogue, I meant I haven't talked to you.'

'Why would I talk to you?'

'...I don't know...'

Eyebrows downturned, Sally returns to the gum foil. 'You're still so weird.'

A bell chimes to announce the start of dinner. Thank G-d, Elijah, my parents, and Sally's parents glide into their seats without interrupting conversation and I can be forgotten.

Elijah leans close. 'How did it go?' he whispers, as if my embarrassment isn't bright on my face.

'Awful.'

The arrival of the first appetizers, brought by a waistcoated waiter to each table in perfect synchrony, promises a hiding place for the rest of the night. I'm a naturally slow eater and I've mastered the art of drawing out each course so that I'm never pulled into conversation; it's bad manners to address someone while they're chewing.

My hope wilts when the plate is placed before me to reveal aubergine bruschetta. I hate eggplant. Even when grilled, it's slimy. (Not that I'd be able to enjoy even Jakób's matzo ball soup in these clothes.)

Sally presses her greying gum to the underside of her plate and my already meagre appetite shrinks.

'Dorian, will you need a rod screwed to your spine?' Ima is a gold medalist in speaking through a smile so charismatic it tricks any strangers into declaring brutalities sweet. 'Sit straight.'