I was looking around the room, a private nook that barely fit the four of us, admiring the Mission style touches, the Frank Lloyd Wright-like lamps.

I sat next to one girl, another sat across from me, and the host, T., next to her. A couple squeezed in later, but it was mostly the four of us.

Not wanting to ruin my streak of sounding not entirely misfit, having chimed in on enough things, I was purposefully silent. The girl sitting across from me spoke up, asking, “Have you been to _____ _____’s parties?”

I shook my head no. She continued.

These other women, they fit in his world, they suit him much better, all around. Sometimes I’d worry about him, but moments like this remind me that with so many others, any concern was conceit.

Ironically, the girl who brought up the other host seemed to feel unsure about her conversation, and I reassured her after. (Though I did internally cringe during her story.)

People were curious how I knew T., why I knew so much (they thought) about movies and things.

My lack of details, may prove a problem. It is starting to feel like lying by omission.

It likely doesn’t help that I go by Vivian. But I’ll talk about that another time.