the quiet after the party

empty wine glasses on the table. she picks through the leftovers; a hunk of cheese, some strawberries and cold pasta. this is where he undressed her, and this is where they all laughed like children again. his hand sliding down the small of her back: "your dress is so sweet tonight," when he had meant to say "smooth."

ah, and who broke the tiffany lamp on the floor? whose foot it was that kicked the shade and cracked the metal wire frame? the yellow roses in the vase are past full bloom--they look more like cabbages than flowers. she can't be bothered to clean the apartment, walking barefoot and half naked through the empty rooms. she's slept most of the hours away, and still there is all that light coming in through the curtains. sometimes, she thinks, the long summer days are a curse more than a gift.

last night, she had a vision. she dreamt she walked by a restaurant on a side street and stopped to look through the window. there, behind her reflected image on the pane, were endless tables filled with late afternoon patrons--young and old couples, families with children and grandchildren--everyone eating joyously, reverently, their hands touching then passing one another gracefully like a waltz.

she stood transfixed by all the signals of culinary pleasure. the entire scene played in front of her like a silent film in color. she made as if to go in, but turned away abruptly when she realized the restaurant had no doors.