pink party

We were on the verandah of a house in the suburb of Newcastle where I grew up. I have never in waking life been into the house, although I had childhood friends, identical twins, who lived across the road from the house, and I used to go their house to play when I was young. B and I were standing under the awning, talking about the party we were hosting that evening at her restaurant. I had forgotten about the party until that day, and I was trying to remember if I had contacted everyone. I was not sure if I had actually invited G, the person for whom the party was being held. B, very unusually, was wearing pale pink eye shadow and mascara. I asked her about it teasingly and pinched her. We went inside and there were three old women sitting in armchairs in the living room. I realised that they could probably see and possibly hear B and I when we were talking outside the window, and felt a little embarrassed as our interaction had been private. I went into the kitchen and a few people who were coming to the party arrived, bringing trays of food with them. They were people I haven’t seen since my teenage years and they had brought food I haven’t eaten for about thirty years – lolly pink coconut ice and slices topped with glazed artificial cherries. Sweet pink things.