Last Night’s Dinner Party
Butter and flour, a little milk: a perfect roux, and that’s all you need for almost anything. Melt the butter with the flour, make a paste and slowly add the milk while stirring. She loved the stirring. She invited all her friends, old and new, to the party but never told them what she knew about each of them; preferring to mix the characters while they were fresh: add a little salt, some California white for headiness, some garlic for warding off bitterness and jealousy. The men arrived half dressed in starched shirts without ties, and the women came baring their breasts, their hearts on their lacy cut out bras as offerings to the night. The party began: music filling the ears: memories of nights never happening but hoped for, and sweet, sharp tastes of mouths kissed for too long a time, lips swollen but not satisfied.
The group drew closer and closer as the wine slipped like absinthe through and beyond the coyote throats thrown back, howling into the night: braying for a mate, a partner, an equal contestant in this game of love. Darker grew the pond outside the window, with its swamp grass entangled around the feet of the guests having slunk, stealth- like, into the room through louvered doors half open in the hearts and organs of the guests pulling them into a place between dark and light, “l’heure bleu”, the hour of knowing, they went hand in hand often switching partners, as the swans folded their great white wings into themselves and the women opened their white breasts once folded so neatly into their black dresses. The night became a tent: the world beneath it another world. There were no restrictions, no knowledge, no carnage, as this was the underworld of love.