My conversation with the axe-murderer at
the Jenkins’ party was really quite awkward.
I made excuses for my unchecked curiosity,
asked her about victims and her preference
for the axe. She wouldn’t talk. She was missing
an entire arm. With some remaining important
fingers she rolled the stem on her glass of wine.
It soon felt like an interrogation and without
words she returned to the couch with the other
axe-murderers. They laughed it up. By the
indoor hot tub there was a group of scantily
clad Chinese water torturers reminiscing.
Some suicide bombers were walking to the
bathroom together. They were talking about
later getting together a game of volleyball.
I went to the kitchen and got a handful of party
mix, pretzel sticks and peanuts mostly, and
stood by myself in the center of the room
and discreetly transformed into my impression
of Frankenstein. Eventually, everyone got a real
kick out of that and their laughter steadily grew,
fed off of itself, then seemed to close in from
all sides until its volume swallowed me whole.