Looners

“Who here knows what looners are?” Irene had asked earlier that evening.

The six former classmates, now fused into three married couples, were gathered for their annual dinner. This time Irene was the host, and she inhabited that role with theatrical devotion. Irene was intense—sometimes a touch too intense. Her husband Bart was the self-appointed chef beverage. A steady man. Exactly what she needed.

The voices around the table were loud. There was plenty to talk about. Helen, for instance, was on the verge of tears. She had that particular way of breathing Irene recognized instantly: almost crying, almost collapsing, almost unable to get enough air to keep herself upright.

“I got fired last month. I told my boss our son is seriously ill. He was afraid I’d be absent too often because of hospital visits, so he let me go. Hans’s salary alone isn’t enough to cover the mortgage.”

Irene watched the movement of Hans’s hand. The way he touched his wife—mechanically, almost programmed—as if he were executing a standard response someone once drilled into him. They had called him Hans the Simpleton since university. Brilliant, but socially blank. Out of habit, he placed an arm around his sobbing wife’s shoulders. He went no further. Could go no further. Some called it autism. His friends called him simple. Irene sometimes found him disarmingly honest. Sometimes irritating. Mostly unreadable.

At the table, Irene served onion soup as a starter. She had worked on it for hours but pretended it had been effortless.

“Oops,” said Karen, the third woman of the group, married to Victor. Her spoon hovered mid-air, as if the mere threat of an onion could strike her down.

“I forgot to mention I’ve recently become allergic to onions.”

Irene smiled tightly. First Helen, now this. Karen always managed to spoil something. Literally. Figuratively. Every single time.

“No problem, sweetheart. I can heat up some stuffed tomatoes for you?”

Karen’s standard reply irritated Irene even more.

“Only if it’s really not too much trouble?”

Yes, Karen, it is, she thought. By the time the tomatoes were warm, the soup would be cold and the croûte would have collapsed like a punctured pudding. She glanced at Bart, who knew her face like a topographical map—he saw the volcano simmering but said nothing. That was his strength. And sometimes the very thing that annoyed her.

The main course, truffle-stuffed pasta, was well received. Unfortunately vegetarian—Hans had recently converted. Not out of ethics or conviction, but because his GP told him he “should try eating greener.” Hans took advice literally.

All evening they talked only about success, assets, annual income, private schools, prestige, and status. The usual parade of polished careers and curated lives. Irene already knew exactly how each person would speak before they opened their mouths.

Victor in particular made sure everyone knew how well he was doing. His watch ticked loudly enough to demand attention. His smile was more expensive than the wine on the table. She couldn’t stand him. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

Those subjects meant nothing to Irene. Material things and status held no value for her. She looked at Victor’s hands—smooth, manicured, empty. She had never caught him being vulnerable. That bothered her.

Luckily, she had the excuse of clearing the table and preparing dessert. Homemade tiramisu. To be accepted in this group, one had to be at least somewhat culinary. Irene was hyper-culinary—as long as she was the guest sampling the creations. Not the cook producing them.

The evening was not unfolding the way she had hoped. She thought back to the day before. She had picked up Karen and Victor’s kids from school and spent the afternoon at their house.

The kids were playing quietly upstairs while she sat on the couch with a glass of wine. She heard the buzzing tremor of a smartphone. Victor’s. Forgotten, apparently.

She tried not to look, but that resolve didn’t last long. One notification after another lit up the screen.

“You’re coming tonight, right? I ordered 150 balloons.”

“You promised you’d be there, so we’re counting on you. 10 p.m. sharp.”

A photo appeared: naked people surrounded by balloons. Then a video of the same people blowing balloons until they burst. Some sat on them until they exploded. Sounds that didn’t seem to belong anywhere.

It kept going. Victor appeared regularly. Visibly aroused. Irene’s stomach flipped—not out of prudishness, but disbelief. Later that evening, she looked it up: people who become sexually aroused by balloons. Looners.

The dessert bowls were practically licked clean. The group was in excellent spirits. She wasn’t. She felt the shame of someone who knew too much.

“Who here knows what looners are?” she asked without warning. The air went flat. Someone dropped a fork. Bart looked up; he recognized that tone.

Four faces stared at her, confused. The fifth flushed red.

“Why are you blushing, Victor? You enjoyed it last night too, didn’t you?”

Karen exploded.

“Last night? What is she talking about, Victor? Were you two together? What did you enjoy?”

She turned her fury toward Irene. “Did you sleep with my husband? How dare you… you’ve hated him since the day we met. Why him of all people? Do you like destroying marriages?”

Bart stepped in.

“I don’t know what this is about. What I do know is that Irene was at home last night. So don’t jump to conclusions, Karen.”

Hans the Simpleton was simplicity incarnate. He stared, startled by the sudden commotion. He didn’t want to be involved. He knew nothing and stayed quiet. His eyes darted nervously, as if searching for an instant crash course in social behavior.

Helen piled on.

“I don’t know what looners are, but maybe Victor, Bart, and Irene were together last night.”

“We were not, Karen. I wasn’t with them,” Victor said firmly. His voice cracked. A fissure. Finally.

He racked his brain, trying to understand how Irene knew about his balloon fetish. Victor was clearly clueless. He felt exposed. Finally.

“Let’s go, Karen.” He nearly dragged her out of her chair. “I’ll explain at home.”

Irene had a strange grin on her face.

Now Victor had something else to brag about besides his perfect life.

She knew she had gone way too far. But everyone had told her, more than once, that she was a borderline case. Or manic-depressive.

Tonight she chose to act accordingly.

And it felt fucking good.