Unexpectedly, she grasps my shirt collar and begins to unbutton the top. I jerk back, but her grip is strong. I settle. A low-lit backdrop set my nerves on edge – the poor light won’t allow me to see anything but the crown of her head as she unfastens the buttons with a deft motion. It is a loveless task. When finally she reaches the final button, I inhale deeply and motion to thank her but she has already turned.
She hands me a white shirt stained by a mysterious pink and a miniature cloak to place over it. Her own strange outfit of grey-green fish scales and shimmering body powder confuse me further. As I secure the final tie, she grasps my arm and leads me downstairs. The pounding music and strange sounds lead me to expect a sea of people to crowd the lower floor, yet none appear. When I inquire, she replies, “It makes a better impression.” On who, I did not know.
Streaking across the glow of the television screen is a black-and-white actress, her wrists coated in fake blood. She holds out her arms and stares blankly ahead, yet I miss her words. Led quickly into the kitchen, the fish woman bustles about in a detached sort of way. She has shimmering fake eyelashes as well and they distract me from asking her why she is in my house. She extracts a baking dish from the cooled down oven. Dozens of tiny delicacies wait for consumption. Before even reaching for them, she slaps my hand down.
“They’re for our guests.”
I ask who. She replies, “Roasted almonds, coated in chocolate mix.” I nod.
It all seems too random for company. Yet the woman flicks a switch, and almost instantly the doorbell rings.
She descends the three steps to the doorway, holding the almonds in a mittened hand, while I stay in the living room and quietly peer over the partition.
Hideous monsters clad in clashing disruptive colors bubble up with open hands and plastic tubs. Their high pitched voices screech out a greeting and, promptly, the woman drops some almonds into their outstretched palms. I stare, blank faced, as they break into toothy mischievous smiles and pass from the threshold. The woman closes the door to the cold night and returns to the couch.
“What was that? Who were they? What are you doing?” I ask, gripping the couch arm with undue force.
She looks from me to the remote control lying between us, then grabs the device and flips the channel.
“I don’t like scary movies,” she says.
The orange fog permeating the room begins to chafe. I am trapped. I try to inch away from the fish woman, but she lays her arm across the plane of fabric and pats my knee. She addresses me by my patient number.
“It’s alright. I just wanted you to have an evening.”