By Chip Houser
When the cops showed up at Barrett’s party, Evan ran upstairs and hid in a closet. More a D&D guy than a party guy, he didn’t know what else to do. He slid behind a tangle of dresses and hangars, glad for once he was skinny. Blue and red lights strobed through the bifold door slats. He was sitting, back against the wall, sweating a little, trying to breathe quietly, when someone pushed through the clothes.
It was Tammy Wilson.
“Occupied,” Evan whispered.
“I know.” She laughed, a soft, warm sound among the labyrinth of dresses. She was close enough that Evan smelled her strawberry hairspray. He pressed his elbows to his sides, hoping he didn’t stink.
“Don’t worry about the police, this happens every time.” She slid down the wall next to him and pulled her knees to her chest. Their shoulders touched. “Barrett will promise to turn down the music and keep everyone inside and they’ll leave.”
“Okay,” Evan said, “now I just feel silly.”
“I think it’s cute. And it gives us a chance to talk some more.”
The gemstones on her sandal straps made tiny kaleidoscopes across her tan feet. Even her feet were cute. His sneakers looked shabby and humongous.
Hours earlier, when Evan arrived, Barrett had waved him in and said the keg was in the kitchen. He was filling a plastic cup with tap water when Tammy walked in.
Evan didn’t really know Tammy. They had honors trig together but didn’t talk outside of class. She ran with the popular crowd, with people like Barrett, whose parents were in Florida for the week.
“Hi Evan!” she said warmly, setting a cutting board with a block of cream cheese covered in green jelly, Ritz crackers, and a round-ended cheese spreader on the granite island.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s that?”
“A hostess gift.”
Evan shook his head. “Barrett’s a guy.”
She laughed, like he was joking. “That’s what it’s called when you bring something as a little thank you. My mom grew up in the fifties. She worships Emily Post.”
“It’s 1985.”
Tammy shrugged. “She says it’s good practice. She has a point. And it soaks up the booze.”
“Is it good?”
“I made it.”
He felt like he had to try it. He spread a section of cheese and jam onto a cracker. “Wow, that’s” —he slapped his hand over his mouth— “really spicy.” He sucked down some water. “But good.”
She laughed, but gently he thought. “It’s the jalapeño jelly.”
He’d never heard of jalapeño, it sounded as exotic as it tasted. He liked it and made himself another. “This stuff rules.”
They chatted about trig, then the usual junior year stuff: colleges, majors, all the applications. She laughed more than she did in class. She was different from what he’d expected, not aloof at all, and easy to talk to. Smart, of course, but also funny and kind. Once, she touched the corner of her mouth to let him know he had some cheese there.
As the night wore on, they drifted into separate conversations, separate rooms, but he kept thinking about her, how easy their conversation had been. She looked like she was having a blast, moving easily among different clusters of people—playing quarters on the dining room table, dancing to the hypnotic synth groove of Tears for Fears, chatting and laughing on the living room couch. So he was surprised when she followed him into the closet, where they sat together, talking and talking and talking, comfortable enough with each other that being alone in a dark closet didn’t seem strange at all. Comfortable enough that, when she slipped her hand into his, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Neither of them noticed when the flashing lights stopped.
* * *
Chip Houser’s flash can be found in the Chestnut Review, Molotov Cocktail, Pulp Literature, and many other literary and speculative markets. “Dark Morsels” from Red Bird Chapbooks collects some of his many micro- and flash fictions. Say hi @chiphouser.bsky.social and find story links at chiphouser.com.