promise of tomorrow

9 May

The room glittered with voices as I walked in. Glasses clinked together delicately, unobtrusively. The carpet below was so thick and plush I wanted to take my heeled shoes off and let me bare feet sink into it. In the left corner of the room three people played music. It cloaked everything with a kind of golden radiance, a fragile promise that tomorrow, everything would be alright. The food was leisurely displayed, an array of sumptuous meats, cheeses, and fruits spread across a table in the middle of the room. There was a sensusousness about the whole affair, about the smallish room and the women in summer dresses and the smell of exotic flowers blowing in from the open winows, about the gauzy white curtains curling up with the wind as it blew into the room and then down again like a deflated balloon as they sifted back down to the ground. No one seemed to notice me. Everyone was engaged in intimate conversations.

“Darling! You do look lost” A tipsy woman suddenly had me within the crook of her arm and was leading me out toward the balcony where groups of people drifted and and out of the intoxicating summer air. “You must be Harold’s daughter, right? My how you’ve grown! You look lovely, and that dress is divine.” The tipsy woman who was still coherent enough to carry on a semi-normal conversation scolded me for not having come earlier. There were people she wanted me to meet. I wondered whether or not I should tell her I wasn’t Harold’s daughter, and that I didn’t even know Harold at all. In the end, I decided against it. It turned out to be a thoroughly entertaining evening.

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