13: Miranda

Miranda had no real idea what she was doing at the party. This was not unusual; she rarely knew what she was doing anywhere. She rarely intended to do anything at all, but somehow found herself doing things all the same. She considered herself living proof that volition played much less part in human affairs than was generally realised.

The music was loud and irritating; the lights dim and irritating; the people shallow and irritating. At some level Miranda was even irritated, but not enough to pay any attention to; not enough to act upon.

Instead she just watched people. Well, at first it was people; before long it was one person. A young man, dancing. He looked vaguely familiar, though not enough that it occurred to her to wonder where she'd seen him before. If he stirred any particular feelings in her, she didn't notice; but he was nice to look at, and the way he moved was enticing, and she couldn't think of any good reason to look away.

So, she watched. And as she watched, she gradually became aware that she wasn't the only one. Gazing at the oddly-mesmerising patterns he made dancing around the room, it seemed to her that everyone around him was somehow woven into those patterns, that they were all somehow in orbit around him. She noticed that those other people were a lot more aware of him than he was of them. Some were looking at him, clearly captivated; others were not looking, but so self-consciously that it was almost worse than a frank stare.

Miranda was not particularly attuned to these things, but eventually it dawned on her that there was a kind of tension in the air. A kind of... hostility. She couldn't identify its source, it almost seemed to be coming from everywhere. From everyone. It didn't really make sense to her -- she certainly didn't make the connection between this odd, bitter atmosphere and the sense she'd had that nearly everyone present was somehow in thrall to the handsome dancer -- but it did make her slightly uneasy.

A woman in a wine-stained dress slipped past Miranda on the way out, and as she slammed the door there was a lull in the annoying music. The man stopped dancing. Oblivious to the glares and scowls of his companions, he wandered out towards the kitchen. Miranda -- without volition, of course -- followed.

"Hello."

"Hi. Have we met before?"

"I don't know. You look sort of familiar. I'm... I'm not very good with faces."

"Were you at the show earlier?"

The show? She vaguely remembered there'd been some event before this. A fashion parade or something.

"Uh. Yes, I think so. Were you?"

"I was modelling. Weren't those jackets marvellous? I really think Ursula is a genius, don't you?"

Miranda couldn't remember a single detail of the clothes and had no idea who Ursula was, but it seemed polite to agree.

"Oh, absolutely."

"Menswear is such a wasteland, generally, but her stuff really stands out."

It was immediately clear to Miranda that this person was an idiot. She felt she was something of an expert on vapidity and shallowness, and he seemed to make both into an artform.

"I couldn't agree more. It was revelatory."

He looked so delighted she couldn't help smiling too.

"I'm Miranda, by the way."

"Pleased to meet you, Miranda. Alexander."

They shook hands.
Posted by matt at November 15, 2004 03:56 AM