At nine forty, I was having a good time. At nine forty-one, I wanted to go home. I examined this change as though it might indicate a mechanical fault. The music was still good. My friend was still funny. Nobody had said anything terrible about my haircut.
I had arrived at seven with a bag of ice and helped move a table. We had eaten, talked and listened to somebody explain a workplace dispute using three olives as the management team. I had laughed hard enough to need a tissue. It had been a proper evening.
I just wanted to be in my own kitchen, taking my earrings off beside the fruit bowl. This did not seem like a reason I could announce.
I began inventing obligations.
Perhaps I had an early appointment. Perhaps I was expecting a parcel. Perhaps my building required all residents to return before ten to participate in a survey about the lift. I rejected the last one because it sounded suspiciously interesting.
Then I remembered that when I invited people over, I did not want them to remain in my home out of fear. My friend Rosa had said, "Come when you can." She had not added, "And prove your affection by staying until I put the chairs away."
I found her in the kitchen and said, "This has been lovely. I am going to head home soon." I did not give her the imaginary appointment.
"Of course," she said. "Have you had cake?" I had. We established this, hugged and discussed which container I could take a slice home in. The negotiation concerned Tupperware rather than the strength of our friendship.
I did not need to address the room.
I said goodbye to the people I had been talking with. One asked me to stay for another song. "Another time," I said. "I am ready to go." He nodded and resumed his argument about whether the song had come out in 2004 or 2005. My departure did not appear to be the evening's central event.
I had travelled there on my own, so nobody was depending on my lift. If they had been, the conversation would have needed to happen before I went hunting for my coat. As it was, I checked the journey home and made sure I had my keys and the correct shoes.
The coat took longer. Under somebody's enormous puffer jacket I found mine, a scarf, and a cardigan Rosa said had been in the apartment since March. She took a photograph of me holding it up like an archaeological find.
I got the evening I had wanted.
On the way home, I was tempted to send a message explaining again why I had left. There was still no explanation beyond wanting to. I sent "Thank you for tonight. Excellent olives" and put the phone in my pocket.
At home I made tea, removed the earrings and ate half the cake. I had enjoyed the party and I enjoyed being home. The two facts fitted together without much trouble once I stopped asking one to cancel the other.
The next morning Rosa sent a photograph of the three olives lined up beside the sink. "Senior leadership," she wrote. I asked whether they had helped with the washing-up. She said their contribution had been largely strategic.
I took her container back that afternoon. We had another cup of tea. I stayed for forty minutes and left when I said I would, which felt like a small but promising development.
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