Maeve shivered as she entered the overly air-conditioned party center through two very large heavy front doors. The heat of the day had been pressing on her bare shoulders ever since the morning sun had risen high into sky, and thus had succeeded in making her feel burdened and uncomfortable. The air inside the hall that was escaping through a large vent in the wall evaporated the moisture from her body as she passed, drying her sticky skin and making the hair in her arm stand on edge. A sigh escaped her throat, partly out of relief and partly out of anxiety. It was going to be a long day.

     The large entrance doors had been helpful when they closed out the oppressive humid air behind her, but they brought her aggravation because they now pushed her into the reality of the hall. She became aware of the distant chatter of the wedding guests coming through the next set of doors at the end of the hall -the forced laughter, the clink of champagne glasses, the click of the woman's heels- and she could feel how straight and restrictive that air would be, almost as restrictive as the humidity outside. Maybe even more so.

     "Ma'am?"

     Maeve started, and turned to find a short older woman standing just to her left blinking behind elegant pointed glasses. She wondered how long the woman had been standing there, judging her in silence. 

     "I'm sorry?" Maeve answered the woman questioningly and raised her eyebrows. 

     The woman cleared her throat purposefully, and straightened the glasses on her thin face with a rigid pointer finger. "Name please?"

     "Oh, of course. Maeve Colleran." 

     She nodded a stiff acknowledgment of Maeve's words, and scrolled her guest list with the end of the ball point pen. She nodded stiffly again. "Table 25, bon apetit." 

     Her words were so rehearsed and the atmosphere was so tight and forced that Maeve felt like they were both acting parts, rigid and perfect in a performance on a stage or in a movie. Both knew that behind the others carefully shaded eyes there were veiled thoughts, thoughts that bobbed and shifted in secret, held back from the world. The woman was the one perfecting the charade of complete impassivity. She had died jet black hair which she had pulled tightly back into a snug and perfect bun at the back of her neck. Her entire person looked as if it had been cut out of a designer magazine. Yes, she had obviously spent time correcting and perfecting her part in this performance.

     She stood and stared at Maeve in annoyance. "Pardon, darling, could you step it up a bit?" She bent her head slightly, motioning to the dining room with her made up eyes. 

     Maeve noted that the irritating comment was spoken because more guests were piling in the doors and making there own way to the dining hall. Even though the woman's condescending comment was annoying, Maeve felt a tinge of satisfaction at the fact that the woman had allowed a slight slip of the impassive character she was playing at, when her perfectly made up face slid into a less than elegant frown out of her impatience. So, she wasn't completely polished.

     Moving on hastily as expected and told to do, Maeve smoothed her hand up the back of her braided hair that she had piled on the top of her head in an elegant and intricate twisting design, and looked to the floor to watch her pointed cream heels walk one in front of the other in a straight line. She slowed and stopped before entering the dining room. These doors, like the others, were large but not as heavy. But these doors seemed even larger and menacing to her, taunting her that they would burst open at any moment, because they held back everything that she wished to avoid. She just couldn't go in. She just couldn't do it. That room held too much. But what other option did she have? Spend the whole evening in this hall with the rigid hostess?

      Maeve took a step back and held her stomach as she felt a tug in her gut, and tried to find something else to think about to calm her nerves. She walked over to one of the smoothly painted walls decorated with half pillars protruding from its surface. She touched the pillar before leaning against it, rubbing her arm with a shaky hand. She breathed twice, deeply, and allowed her eyes to roam the opposite wall for some kind of comfort only to find her own agitated reflection in an elaborate filigreed mirror staring back at her. Leaving the hard bony surface of the pillar, she stepped closer and set her handbag on a small table with it's smooth marble surface aching for admiration. She picked it up directly after however, as she felt the table would be marked in some way, even by the silk of her purse. As she bent closer to the mirror and looked at herself, she saw the pain in her eyes and was afraid of her own reflection. If she looked into their emerald depths she could see things in them that she didn't even want to know existed, such fear. They held secrets that she didn't want to read; things she knew were as true as the life that she couldn't face. The secrets told the tales she was already living but hating, and all of the stories were wrought with feeling, too deep a feeling, and over all too many feelings. 

     Maeve took another breath and straightened to focus only on her hair and general appearance and noted that something was't quite right. Something was missing. She tilted her head and tried to think what it might be. Suddenly she noticed that there was another reflection next to hers. A young man with brown wavy hair slanting across his forehead and dark penetrating brown eyes, brushed aside his curls with his fingertips, and smiled at Maeve's reflection.

      Maeve smiled politely but didn't meet his gaze for more than a second and turned as quickly as she could without being rude, playing with the engagement ring on her left hand consciously. She licked her dry lips and realized then that she had forgotten to apply her red lipstick. That's what was missing. She needed to find another mirror, and knew there would be a bathroom in the dining room, but that meant she had to face that room. Taking a large breath she saw the young man with the waving hair slip in through the large doors. 

     Could she make it that simple? Could she move into that room with the confidence she had mastered earlier that day? She would have to. 

     Maeve opened one of the doors and caught her breath when she saw the beauty of the dining room. It was so elegant, furnished so intricately that it was close to perfect. But her fairy tale thoughts were interrupted by the D.J.'s loud voice and another hip-hop song. It shocked her back into reality. Immediately she looked for the bathroom. It wasn't hard to find. She slipped through the outskirts of the crowd and in through the pristine white filigreed door. Maeve leant against the counter and sighed. She closed her eyes to think.

     Michael, her ex-fiance was sitting at one of those tables. She didn't know which one, but that didn't matter. He was there. That's all she knew. How should she approach him? How would he act with her? How should she act toward him? Their break up and parting had been so painful. She had tried to reconcile and he would have none of it. In her heart Maeve wanted to be herself and really did want to talk with him. There was so much to be said, so much to clarify, so much to cover. So many questions to be answered, so much pain to reconcile with. So much to apologize for and be forgiven for. But did he feel the same way? She knit her brows and opened her eyes to look at herself in the mirror. 

     "Just let his behavior guide yours," she heard herself saying. "If he ignores you, you cannot search him out. If he acknowledges your presence, you must be kind to him." Nodding in agreement she took her dark red lipstick out of her hand purse and smoothed it on deftly. Now that she had faced the thought of Michael's presence her mind began flying through memory after memory that had been made with the man who still haunted her dreams. The creak of the bathroom door made her straighten her back and turn her head. 

     To her astonishment Maeve saw Michael's mother enter in her tight silk, navy colored dress. Maeve lowered her eyes and unzipped her purse to slide the lipstick back into it. When she looked back up, Michael's mother had gone around the corner and had apparently not recognized her. That was a relief, too good to be true.

     Escaping out of the bathroom she re-entered the buzzing dining room and felt even more trapped than before. She was stuck; she had to be here but dreaded every moment. 

     "Table 25," she murmured out loud to herself, and made her way through the people to find her destination.