Matt Gillick
Can’t Make It, Sorry (Not Really)
No one said to call off the party, but their messages excusing themselves indicated a get-together wasn’t a good idea. They all have a thru-line: I’m not coming.
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I took myself off the group chat to let you know, privately, that I will absolutely friggin’ not come to your thing. Spare you the embarrassment.
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Buddy…I have to admit…when you blasted her about those sorry-ass sculptures I cracked. Remember when you said Who the hell calls a clay piece Marble? Had me rolling. Can’t make it though, my bad.
Regardless, everything’s ready. The kitchen floor is scrubbed and swiffered. Crumbless. Piles of dishes relegated to the cavernous, humming dishwasher. Sitting on a freshly vacuumed couch there is this weight, this gravity like an awkward silence after a bad joke. No one around to laugh it off or change the subject, breathe some air back into the room. Messages continue to ding and rattle a bricky phone on the cracked Goodwill coffee table.
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Your apartment smells like air freshener and dirty socks. Not feeling it.
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Sorry, in-laws paid us a visit. Have fun and make sure you don’t drink too much. Promise me, okay?
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Seriously? I shouldn’t even respond to this.
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You…want me…to come over?! Why? So you can read me to filth too?
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Today’s my cleaning day, and I can’t function in a dirty place.
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Was this invite a mistake? It has to be. I can’t face those people yet. Me coming over would only make things worse. I told you what her husband said in confidence…but you just had put it out there.
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I couldn’t find a dog sitter for Ginny. Poor thing gets bad separation anxiety. You understand, right?
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Dude, I haven’t gone to the gym all week. I’ll feel like shit if I don’t get a pump in. But I appreciate the invite, bro!
Guess they won’t be able to appreciate the foldout table of dry rub chicken wings next to a pyramid of mixers and liquors. The patio is all set too. Every surface wiped clean of pollen, enhancing the illusion that the garden furniture always stood upright and without bird droppings. Not even field mice running along the fenceposts and hydrangeas will dare disturb the festivities. That is if anyone shows up. With every message, this party turns more and more into a spring cleaning. Never has this place been so organized and planned out. Another litany of dings.
My buddy is performing on the other side of town. But have a great night!
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Not feeling up to it. Going to stick to reading this Coover story and order takeout. Hope you’re feeling better than you were last Friday.
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I was excited to come through. Keyword: was. But then you drank to a point where you showed a side that I don’t want to see again. Let me know when you figure yourself out.
A select few will show up out of sympathy. Or duty. Given the fragility of the social dynamic, their presence will mean little to nothing. They’ll tiptoe around tables, chairs, and dusted lampshades like the apartment is a piece of interactive performance art. Every napkin, paper plate, scented candle, and folded washcloth crucial to retaining the exhibit’s vibe. A pristine setting, except for the holes in the wall. Out of courtesy, they will peek into the stacked fridge, but its contents will remain untouched as if White Claws have evolved to movie set sanctity. They’ll reach for the water bottles instead.
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Jack doesn’t feel well. Played a bit too hard last night.
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That’s today?
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Molly’s still pretty pissed about the whole situation…Don’t think it’s a good idea.
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I could come over later…after it’s over?
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Why did you say those things, man? I know she’s annoying as hell. But repeating what her husband REALLY thinks about her work was just low of you. I feel my going would be choosing them or you, and I don’t want to do either.
There won’t be much to clean when ultimately the few and far between leave before it gets dark enough to plug in these lights last used at a Christmas party. Only a few months ago, those string lights lit up faces smiling at the moon in the early morning, lubricating discussions about ex-boyfriends and people they pretended to like. So much laughter, spiked cider, whoops of surprise, neighbors banging their broomsticks on the floor, saying keep it down, just keep it down. One slip-up and everyone acts like they never said a hurtful—honest—thing in their life. The doorbell rings. The first guest is two hours late and certain to be let down by what they see.
Matt Gillick
Matt Gillick is from Northern Virginia. Recent and forthcoming work in Cardinal Sins, heartwood literary magazine, and Sandy River Review. He is also one of the founding editors of Cult, a new literary magazine.