You don't know how to talk to people at parties

By Grace Crouthamel

“You don’t know how to talk to people at parties,” Julia said while we were outside

smoking—she likes American Spirits, I prefer anything else because they take too long, and I’m the sort of person unwilling to ash early—twelve dollars a pack now—and I said, “all social scenes are going to die if they kill the cig, think of the culture,” and she almost laughed, the other people around us laughed at least—all Thatcher’s friends from that private prep school he went to, we know him from college so we’re second-tier friends—and then I’m talking to some guy Thatch knows about where we’re from and he says he grew up right outside the city (New Jersey) and that transplants are ruining the city, and after another third of the cigarette I tell him I’m from Appalachia and he asks if I’m saying it correctly because he heard it pronounced differently in his Labor History class, and I don’t know how to respond and he follows up with, “what was that like?” so I laugh and say, “well, the stereotypes are largely untrue,” and he says, “what do you mean?” so I tell him about my incest cousins—true story—“I do have incest cousins, but I’ll have you know they aren’t from the coal-country side of the family, they’re from the DC suburbs,” and I laugh because that’s the joke, and he asks, “wait, do you really?” and I have to say yes, “I found them behind our grandparent’s shed one summer, and it was at least a handy, so I’m pretty sure that counts,” and he doesn’t laugh, and my cigarette is almost done, and he says, “that’s kind of offensiv —you shouldn’t joke about things like that,” and I say, “oh, I’m sorry,” and turn to see Julia smiling, she takes me by the arm and we walk back inside and tell Thatch we’re leaving, and he says, “that’s too bad, you didn’t get to meet everyone yet,” and we walk toward the subway—she’s taking the L, I’m taking the M—and we both laugh, she kisses me on the cheek goodbye and tells me again, “you really don’t know how to talk to people at parties”—and I laugh, but not really, because every night I still walk home alone.

Grace Crouthamel, a queer writer from Northern Appalachia, lives with two mutinous dogs, a lizard, and a novella-in-progress, with work appearing or forthcoming in Sky Island Journal, ANMLY, and matchbook.

Art by Jasmine Hyman, a playwright and artist living and working in her home town of NYC.