They all see me outside the living room window. "The mistress!" they whisper, eyes darting from me toward the birthday girl's husband. My breath steams the glass. Behind thick branches I dutifully recite, The birthday party is about the birthday girl, not me. The birthday party is about the birthday girl. Not. Me. Creep deeper into lantana. I have to pee. I have my period. God, all I want is cake.

The birthday girl is stunning, her grin a Christmas tree crowned with vanilla icing. She holds her husband easy. She has always known plenitude, never lunged for scraps, never stolen a fugitive look—everything sunshine and butter and bright pennies warm in the hand and nothing lacking, nothing grasped at, nothing doubted.

Guests bend over the dog-eared Emily Post, scanning the index for Love and Bad Person. I put on my lipstick in the glass. They smell my perfume as I hoist one foot over the sill. Disappointment in my eye and arms and mouth like a virus, licking its scarlet ass.

The husband eyes me at the piano. How much pleasure do I deserve? he murmurs. Camellia-red gown slipping from my shoulders, I leaf through sheet music and mouth, All of it, darling. All of it!

He knows which wine I prefer. I know what his T-shirt smells like at the neck. How he'll shed his shoes at my front door, and after he's gone, how I'll sip from his untouched glass on the far night table, a warm red hum filling the cave of my throat.

He clasps his icing-smeared wife around the waist. Their child sucks her thumb and watches.

Under the piano I nip at heels and gobble crumbs. Naked as a chicken I lie, spine knobbing floorboards, ponytail matted with cake. I can't remember if I want them to discover me. I begin to howl, loudly and offkey.

.