Tea Party

She strums her ukulele from a perch near the door. She is waiting, waiting as she has been since precisely 1:15pm this afternoon. She watches with a hawklike air, the plucky plinking sound doing little to abate her intensity. She wishes she could simply conjure guests from thin air. And perhaps she can, because a crooked old man with a long white beard appears. It brushes the tips of his bare toes as he approaches the door, and her ukulele crashes to the floor unceremoniously. It lays there resenting her. 

"Hello!" she says, "I'm expecting many more, but you're the first to arrive for tea!"

"Mrs. Sanderson, I'm afraid you're mistaken." says the man through the glass.

"What?"

"You've undone your jacket in the back, I'll need to reattach it."

She looks down in surprise at her arms, which are covered by the straight jacket in question. Confused, she hugs herself tightly.

"Where am I?" she asks. The man pushes his glasses up on his nose. 

When did he grow glasses? 

"You know where you are, Susan." 

Who is Susan? She whirls around.

The imaginary ukulele laughs at her.

An empty room.

No tea party.

Nothing.

Damn it.