You set a match to the wick. It casts a circular glow on the damask cloth. The glasses sparkle. Silver cutlery glimmers. Everything is in its place, but you can’t help straightening a fork, adjusting a champagne flute.
Your stomach flutters with a year’s-worth of expectation. You glance in the mirror, its tarnish softened by the light, tame a stray curl, streaked now with frost. How many years? You don’t recall.
You take your seat.
“Is everybody here?”
You smile at each place in turn.
“Then let’s begin.”
Your glass flashes as you raise it to the empty room.
Your stomach flutters with a year’s-worth of expectation. You glance in the mirror, its tarnish softened by the light, tame a stray curl, streaked now with frost. How many years? You don’t recall.
You take your seat.
“Is everybody here?”
You smile at each place in turn.
“Then let’s begin.”
Your glass flashes as you raise it to the empty room.
