She leaned forward, slightly drunk, waving her glass towards me, offering a sip of the sparkling concoction. She rose partially out of her chair, refusing to be bound by her cloth napkin as it plummeted to the floor.
She raised her glass in toast, "Annus mirabilis," she said, with a soft curl in her lips. She nodded towards me so I could see only the light hitting her forehead and glazed eyes. A few strands of dark hair fell across to conceal resentment.
The dipping of her head was followed with a polite curtsy, then a return to a poised body, she stood fully. A column of chiffon, layers upon layers of age, and the same pristine face. She understood the composure of cosmetics and grace.
When the ceremony ended, I stole away to silently follow her lavendar scent.
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1 comment:
I really really like this one.
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