Yes, well the city’s Christmas lights were illuminating the twilight air, as thick fog stood still in front of everyone crossing the busy street. Noise from the luxury cars passing by created an evening air fit for the Art District. The shadow society of downtown was dressed in proper black, some even sparkling like stars on a prairie sky.
Walking by the valet drivers, up the stairs and into the restaurant took everything she had. After today this kind of evening so much more unfamiliar to her. She feared the strength she’d need wouldn’t be there. She had a lot on her mind it was somewhere else, stories swirling in her head. One, a story she’d have to tuck away for the time being. How would she write for him, as if taking on the role of a Captain, he’d musted and commanded her to write of swords. A welcomed blank page for releasing anger, a well suited possibility, it seemed.
The attendant shared a smile with her as she entered the chamber, everyone looked so lovely, and seemed perfectly dressed. Romantic smells filled the room, as she craved a strong arm to lead her through the evening. She leaned into what she knew with a brave smile and confident eyes, she approached the stage.
Wives and husbands filling the accommodations as they shook hands. Their greetings were offered with lingering hands and a few with beautiful acknowledgements of the jolly holiday around the corner. Attaining how everyone was linked together during their daily schedules was a welcomed escape from her worries of being deemed acceptable, or at least passable, for one more year.
Groups of beautiful people conversing with one another, she tried to gravitate towards the group that seemed to pull her soul’s arm. She’d noticed how they wore their creativity. She felt drawn to them. Maybe they were writers or artists, she hoped. It seemed most of them architects, who’s asses had been saved by her husband. She couldn’t stand there.
Rushed off to meet someone new, she longed for a light hand on her elbow to help guide her through, possibly a loving arm on the small of her back. It wasn’t possible, too many people, so yes she’d take a drink, and another as she weaved through their crowded version of holiday beauty. She found relief in the group which propositioned them to sit down, each one with a large glass of Cabernet.
Exciting talks of travels, private planes and fishing trips filled her ears. She considered fight scenes in her mind, wondering if there would be one here. She craved smart stories, the possiblity of creating them too. She smiled, finding that pleasantries came easier when handing over her red tickets to a waitress. The drug swimming through her veines calmed her, she kicked herself for accepting another. The man across the table swirled his glass. He seemed to work overtime in an effort to make her laugh. His stories of skiing Breckenridge showed his truths. His adorable wife next to him, the stronger one, appeared aware of his interest: his routinely reckless game.
His money was being thrown towards their waitress, whom he already had in his pocket. After his red tickets end up by her glass, she calmly laid her hand on her husband’s leg and took another long sip. Quietly looking for another set of eyes to connect with she looks towards her husband. He smiles and says nothing about her drink being ordered by a strange man.
She’d decided earlier that night, as soon as she found herself standing next to him, that the man looked like the brother of Rod Stweart and Dustin Hoffman. His reaction to her, she’d quietly noted. She grabbed a quick token of information while observing his silvered hair, a symbol that revealed he was on the prowl. He wore it proud.
The longer they sat there the more she understood, as his stories told her more than they should.
She watched his hand slowly move towards the center of the table. He pulled a single red rose out of the centerpiece. She watched it slide across the busy table and then put gently by her glass. With shock and nervous laughter, her thank you seemed entirely too entertaining, almost too welcoming. Her hand went back to her husband’s leg, the pressure in her grasp had to work this time, surely he’d say something of this bold pass. Yet, it’s who she is, a bit of a flirt. What had drawn her husband to her in the beginning. She had a way of creating a lively evening, she served a purpose.
Conversations continued as the night led into gambling and nightcaps, stories of good times and Christmas cheer. She welcomed a new set of eyes at the end of their table, in hopes that some other woman would embrace his advances. The fashionable eyes seemed well-educated in acquiring the correct audience; they had spent the night circling the room. In the end, unknown to her, the waitress had been given orders to bring one more round. It didn’t stop there, but also a shot glass of her favorite tequila, too.
A calculated event was unfolding, one for him that she wasn’t entertaining. Her clenched hand left her husband’s leg. She slowly found her feet underneath her after hearing another couple choosing to take leave. She had a story to tend to, and more anger to pull from after this evening.
After presenting a Merry Christmas to the group and offering, to the wives, a hug or two, she indulged her drink. She then shot the tequila back. The glazed woman laughed her best laugh while her dimples were flaring. She grabbed the lime, placed it between her lips, sucked the nectar, and said, “Good Evening.”
Houston skyline at night (Photo credit: rickz)