Something peculiar seemed to be happening with time so that when I looked down into the deep red of my wine, I got lost in the infinitely slow process, of picking fruit, from vines planted where Roman Legions once trudged. But then looking up and around the table in the treacherous candlelight, I found the conversation hurtling headlong to a decision made without my participation about my future.
Every cigar was cut and lit. Every Cognac glass filled and every chair leaned back in satisfaction from a suitable conclusion for all but me. I would be the next party leader.
Every cigar was cut and lit. Every Cognac glass filled and every chair leaned back in satisfaction from a suitable conclusion for all but me. I would be the next party leader.
