A Grand Party
It wasn’t my fault.
He was the one with the temper. With his broad hands and his emboldened tongue, it was only the power of ignorance that damned him. Or was it his money?
Yes — the wealth had a lot to do with the shiny things hanging from the crème banister. The long, winded staircase mimicked the driveway leading up to the front double doors.
Every stroke of his inherited rose gold fountain pen contributed to the black marble countertops and fresh scented leather couches that nobody was allowed on.
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But more than material, was the physical ego he displayed every time his wife would speak. At each drop of champagne, he’d color her.
The rouge on her cheeks afterwards would stay as a statement of regality; a mistaken overapplication of blush perhaps. It was to the point where all the house staff expected her smile to never quite reach.
But no other night could match her elation.
So many jewels, so many laughs.
A grand party.
Even his constant trips to her purple collarbone couldn’t rip the grin from her face.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t say anything when she handed him his cocktail with something foaming at the bottom.
