We met them first near the hot food. The catering staff were serving a dim sum shrimp dumpling on a bed of rice at the near end of the table. The caterers must have brought hundreds of ramekins to the venue that night, there was an endless stream of them, a new one for each portion.

Her eyes widened with a light of familiarity as she took me in, then gave me a smile. “You’re wearing my outfit!”

I was in a jumpsuit, sleeveless, black, a deep plunge of a neckline, a long string of pearls, black patent open toe pumps. She wore a short black skirt, pleated like a kilt, her legs in black lace stockings, her feet in heavily buckled boots. Her arms, like mine, were bare skinned, but not unadorned—elaborately tattooed. Her hair was stylish in an unkempt, flattering way.

He was in a tailored jacket, slacks a close enough match to suggest a suit, with a dress shirt and blue plaid bow tie, his own nod to the dress code.

He stood by her, encouraging her, enjoying her.

“I’m wearing your outfit?” I responded, puzzled.

“I looked for something exactly like that all day, all over town. You are wearing exactly what I pictured myself in. But I could find nothing. Where did you get that?”

“Eileen Fisher,” I laughed. “Last year’s season.”

“You bought it here?”

“Not here, dear. Your first mistake is to try shopping here.”

The two of us laughed together, discussed the difficulties of getting off the island, eventually parting company after exclaiming over the shrimp, my helpful husband steering me expertly away and back into the crowd.

We didn’t see them again for a while. The room was full, and there was another room besides, with the same food and another bar—a quieter setting, decorated with photos from the 40 years of theatre we were celebrating.

“Remember? We took your dad to see Putnam County Spelling Bee when he was here.”

“Oh, god, and then we got home to find the dog had eaten the chocolate he’d hidden in his suitcase!”

We lingered awhile and then returned to the lobby where things were noisier, gayer, brighter.

We stood at a long, bar-height table, the one nearest the entrance, at the edge of the nucleus of the crowd. Servers and other attendants orbited behind and around us as they found their way with trays, serving food, collecting glassware.

Then we heard it.

“Fuck you, you bitch.”

I turned to look as the two separated. He strode out the door. She circled past me, found an unoccupied length of table a little ways away and took out her phone. She began texting.

I stayed in my place for a few moments, absorbing. It was then that I noticed how young she was. Not yet 30, I would guess.

There I was, nearly 60, a steadfast man at my side, the calm waters of my marriage keeping me buoyant, making my own enjoyment possible. This wasn’t my crowd, either. She bit her lip, then glanced up and around and recomposed her face. I could imagine her heart pounding, her eyes stinging.

No one else had noticed. She was alone and I wished she could know that the room was not staring at her, that if she needed a safe way out, one was at hand. It was the kind of thing I would have wanted at her age. Someone to step up and say, “I’ve noticed you. I’ve chosen your side.”

I moved next to her and when she looked up, I smiled, put my fingertips on her forearm, and asked, “Will you be okay?”

“You heard that?” she asked.

“Yes, we did. But don’t worry. No one else heard.”

“I can’t believe he did that. It’s humiliating.”

I agreed that she was right to be offended. “It was a childish way to speak—and unacceptable.”

“Childish. I know. Can you believe it? He’s in his forties. But what can I do?”

“Do not date children. Of any age. I think you know enough about this man to make a good decision.”

She looked at me. “He’s moved in.”

I held her eye.

She inhaled. Sighed.

“What matters now is only this party, whether you can still enjoy yourself, whether you’ll be safe when you go home.”

She assured me he would not be violent. But he would be hard to get rid of.

“What you do after tonight is up to you. My intent is only to help you stay in this room, if you want, to confirm your right to enjoy yourself and not have someone take this away from you by being vulgar in public.”

She worked for a property manager and had come with tickets the office had purchased. She was texting to see if she could find a friend who might want to come see the show. I looked at her tickets.

“These are some of the best seats in the house. You’re right to want to share them. But if no one can come on such short notice, you will still enjoy the show. It will be fun. Entertaining.”

Her boyfriend approached and I stepped away. Everyone has the right to a little time to apologize.

He didn’t.

I glanced at my husband. We were now some distance from each other, the feuding couple between us. I didn’t look at the couple directly, but I think they felt our fleeting observation. The boyfriend walked out of the theatre.

Moments later, my husband and I and the young woman reassembled. We smiled at the other guests nearby, engaged them in light, brief, cheerful remarks.

Whenever the young woman would start to rail about her boyfriend’s misdeeds, I would let her finish her sentence and then change the subject. I was not there to be her advocate in a bad relationship. I felt she should have no time for him and tried to demonstrate this by having no time for him, or even accounts of him, myself. The path forward lay in choosing a state of mind that excluded him.

The lights dimmed a warning. We were called to the theatre.

I took my seat without optimism and let the entertainment absorb me.

Michelle Poirier Brown is a Cree Métis writer living on unceded Syilx territory in Vernon, B.C. She published a book of poems, You Might Be Sorry You Read This and was named a Writer to Watch by CBC Books. Her prose has appeared in The Malahat Review, Release Any Words Stuck Inside of You, The Fieldstone Review, The Sun, and Dis(s)ent. Find her at skyblanket.ca.