Spathic: A geological term meaning "having good cleavage."
Okay. So Sarah has this annual Halloween party - she's been throwing it for the last three years, and the Oregon crowd looks forward to it every year. Yesterday, Saturday night, was party at my house time.

I was less than enthused about this. Twenty people crowding into my little apartment, messing up my stuff, keeping me awake into the wee hours. Kaci and Chris and Sarah I know, and Kelly, of course. Everyone else, though, I know on a nodding acquaintace basis if that. Some of the Suds regulars, a neighbor who Sarah used to date, Sarah's old roomie Lily who I do admit is pretty cool in a Goth Bettie Page kind of way. Still, I resigned myself to a chaotic night and figured I'd go with the flow.

Despite myself, I had a great time. People came and there was frivolity and mirth and more bad puns than a Spider Robinson workshop. I traded war stories with other restaurant veterans - the story about Levi calling in late because she had to hit her husband with her car went over very well, and everyone agreed that vehicular assault was a good excuse, and one that discouraged too much inquiry. I debated the merits of Deep Space Nine versus that sad, sad Voyager crap. I traded Guy Walks Into A Bar jokes with Joe and Sally. I played Knightmare Chess - difficult when sober, much less... Oh, yeah, the booze.

Sarah and I bought a number of juices and sodas, a big 'ol jug of Seagram's Vodka, and a moderately sized bottle of Cap'n Morgan's. Guests were invited to bring their poison of choice - and a lot of them decided to bring enough for everyone. Rum. There was an astonishing abundance of rum. Early in the evening, some chowderhead decided to start making toasts. Shots were poured, and passed around. Six shots in twenty minutes later, I fled out to the porch. I am not used to drinking like that - not anymore. I spent some time with some squirt and cranberry juice, but a blond girl whose name escapes me took a sip, and reported to the others that I was shamming. People then made a point of spiking my beverages. Okay, I wasn't trying very hard to behave - but they didn't help. To sum up, I was "bullet-proof" early on, and maintained a level just a hair shy of "invisible" after that.

The people were smart and funny and affable, the beverages were never-ending. Some people wore costumes, but most didn't bother. Kelly had a medieval dress, Lily was all Goth-Bride, Melanie had cat ears and whiskers drawn on her face. I compromised by wearing my half-mask, the one with the pheasant feathers on. There were party games; bobbing for apples, even. Much more fun than I remember it being, and the cold water was, for a time, sobering. Ah, and someone new; Lily brought a guest. Her roommate Phoebe is moving out, and her guest was Lindsay, who'll be taking over Phoebe's half of the rent.

Damn.
When she arrived, I opened the door and the phrase "please come in" stopped in my throat. I stopped it, because I wasn't sure I could say it to a woman like that and NOT have it come out like a proposition. Tall, almost six feet, and as tall as me in the heels she was wearing. Brunette, probably fake because her skin was this creamy pale that's more common in blonds. She's a big girl, not the sort with collarbones and ribs showing - no, she's the kind of girl you can roll around with. Curvy as hell, too, and spathic? Don't get me started. Long neck, and the most distracting mouth - watching her smoke a cigarette was maddening. And she was wearing a bandolier and fishnet stockings. Hot girl with bullets. I say again, Damn.

So, I flirted. Why not, right? Between the mask and the rum I had no fear. The old Pon Farr is annoying as hell, and she seemed agreeable and flirted back, and that seemed to be about as far as it was going. More people arrived, and more toasts were made. A pleasant evening.

And then I was in bed, my alarm going off. Someone had gotten into Sarah's markers and drawn a squid high on my arm, like a tattoo. And there was a big red heart on my chest. I have no memory of the last hour of the party, none. But apparently, I thought, I was shirtless for a bit.
Not a pretty thought, that. My pasty white, hairy back fat on display. The shirt I had on had snaps, so maybe the shirt was just opened. I made a mental note to ask Sarah, so I'd know how embarrassed to be later. I get cleaned up, straighten the apartment a little, and head out to work. Pot Pies at Conifer House tonight, and I was already thinking spices and cooking times. Kaci and Chris took a cab home, so I returned their car, and Kaci offered to give me a lift to Conifer House. On the way there, she askes me, "So... Lindsay?"

I grin, and reply, "Yeah. She was something."

She says, "So tell me about that kiss."

Kiss?

"Kiss?"

"Sarah says you two were going at it pretty strong," she laughs. "And you were all swoony after she left."

"Kiss?"

I remember debating the merits of Measure 50, a constitutional amendment that would raise the gas tax in Oregon. I remember Chris with a potato chip balanced on his head, because he wanted to see how long it would be before somebody asked him why he had a potato chip on his head. I remember loaning Phil my Shadows over Baker Street book, the one with a collection of Lovecraftian Sherlock Holmes stories. I remember people taking pictures and threatening potential blackmail.

The ONE thing I'd like to remember ... and don't.

Son of a bitch!

There's a moral here, and it's not exactly subtle. Rum is not my friend. Alcohol is a harsh taskmaster. And so forth, and so on, I get it. And yet, NOT FAIR. The first action I see in well over a year, and with a huggable number like Lindsay, and what happens? I erased the damn file.

Oh, I'm kicking myself. Believe it.

I'll see Lindsay again, of course. Lily's around a lot, and so she's in the proverbial loop. Or will be, next month when she moves into the Lilly pad. I do remember telling Lily to pass on my phone number. So who knows? Maybe I'll get a do-over.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not looking for a girlfriend, not here. Lindsay's adorable, and I would certainly like the chance to learn those curves a little better, but she's twenty. years. old.

I'm old enough to be her father. Barely - I'd have been fourteen - but still.

In other party news, Chris too is regretting his indulgence of the previous night. Chris is a big guy - six foot five, and a construction worker. He makes me look dainty. He takes a great deal of pride is his drinkin' stories. The man has a Kegerator on his porch, for pity's sake. It's a fridge that he stripped all the shelving out of, put a keg in, and drilled a hole in the door and installed a tap. Frosty mugs go in the top compartment. Whatever you name, he's drunk it, and better than you. Well, last night he was feeling sophisticated, so he put away two bottles of wine. Then he switched to vodka, neat. Poor bastard was still suffering an epic pukey hangover hell at one this afternoon. At least I have some glimmer of silver lining - I've still never had a hangover. Blotto as I was, blackouted memory and all, I woke up clear-headed and ready to go to work.

A toast, then, to Halloween parties! Thank God Halloween is only once a year.