Hush swept over the twenty people at the table. 38 eyes turned toward one pair, which flicked around the table, finding no friends. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry.” Her chair squealed against the floor as she pushed it back, and she walked out the back door. It closed on silence and light behind her, leaving her in silence and darkness.

She squatted on the stoop. Her fingers wished for a cigarette, and tears threatened from behind her eyes. Rocking back and forth comforted her a little. A little.

These people would never invite her back. That was good. Best, even. She didn’t want to see them again. Not when they’d remember this. Some of them knew her other friends. If she could wipe the house from the map, and everyone in it, with a tiny nuclear device maybe, she would. As it was, the word would spread like a disease. She was fucked. And she’d done it to herself.

She stood up. Her nervous hand flicked its imaginary cigarette over her shoulder toward the house. “Fuck it,” she said, and she walked into the night. Behind her, imaginary cinders lit imaginary gasoline, starting an imaginary inferno to light her way.