The guests arrive. The mingling is insincere. Cynical. No one enjoys the food. The flirting is relentless. The party ends with empty smiles.

The song of complaint fills the room. She says, I hate fish sauce! He says, I hate your cat! She gasps. Then they both write books about it.

He could tell she had been beautiful once, before the rot had set inside of her. Have kids? he asked. She didn’t answer. There was no point.