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Chris was saying, "This is Rosemary," and I began shaking hands, sure that everyone there had figured that "Rosemary" loosely translated meant "tall sweaty woman." The sweat was so profuse as to be alarming. It slid down both sides of my neck, joined up at my throat for the mad rush through the ravine between my breasts, then made its ticklish way down to my abdomen. Before the introductions were completed, my shirt -- that foolishly chosen white shirt -- and jeans were suctioned to my body. My clothing felt exactly like it had the time I'd fallen through the ice while skating on Chandlers Pond two decades earlier.

I set about learning names, names that didn't exactly trip off my tongue. I remember being immensely grateful to a guy named Krishna simply because his was a name I could easily commit to memory. I was polite about the children, grabbing their little fists and exclaiming, "Aren't you cute!" The children stared back at me, then turned away or looked at the adult holding them as if to say, "What's up with this one? Why is she dressed for a wet T-shirt contest?"

The candlelight that stood between us and total darkness dominated the conversation at first. A breeze came in from the open sliding glass door, ineffectual but enough to extinguish the brave little collection of candles with one especially energetic gust. We stood in the dark and made nervous jokes while Nabindrah relit them. In the meantime, Lilah and a small army of women, all apparently equipped with some sort of night vision, transported tray after tray of food to a table in a corner of the room.

Food seemed like a terrible idea to me at that moment. I'd have preferred a fan. Yes, that was it. I wanted to lie on a bed with a fan blowing my hair around, Cosmopolitan magazine style, and I wanted to sip some temperature-lowering potion, preferably on the rocks. Instead I smiled as I took the warm beer that Nabindrah handed me, saying as he did so, "I hope you do not have a problem with warm beer, Roseann. This is the third world, and Frigidaires are reserved for the elites."

"Oh, no," I assured him, electing not to tell him my name wasn't Roseann because I wanted some leniency with all the Nepalese names in the room. "Warm beer is fine. Really, I prefer warm beer." To myself I thought that it was unlikely we'd be having ice cream for dessert.

Lilah stood in the middle of the room and flicked a Bic lighter off and on to get our attention. "Dinner is served. It is to be buffet style," she announced. "Please follow me." She then stationed herself at the corner of the serving table, where she supervised the food distribution with the fierce attention of a U.N. relief worker handing out care packages. She let each guest ladle out their own dinner before leaning over and doubling whatever amount was on the plate. To me she said, "Oh, Rosebud, you are too thin."

I stood obediently and watched as Lilah plopped a scoop of something with a name like "Poker Gal" onto my plate. I fumbled my way to a sofa and sat next to Chris. "I know this is hard," Chris whispered, nodding at the wedding cake-sized mound of food on my lap.

"Oh no, honey, it's not hard, but my body is too busy producing sweat to digest anything."

"Well, don't feel like you have to eat all that," Chris said, just as Nabindrah came over and squatted down next to me.

"How is everything?" he asked.

"Wonderful," I said.

"I will tell Lilah you like it," he said.

"It's delicious," I said, opening my mouth and sticking in a forkful of the mystery meal.

It was at that moment that the beast was unleashed.

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