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The candlestick.

08.07.17 – Daisy-made

The palettes were supposed to be paired. We sat for a set, waited on by experts eager to please, and still there was something missing from our dinner. I didn’t like the candlelight, it ran in front of my view and wiggled and danced with no end to the distraction. The coaching Casanova was whispering paperback romance in my ear that came out stumbling and half-hearted. I was caught darting through the monologue as I tried to keep pace with the shifting afterimages left by an open flame between us. She seemed off-put as well.

She was busy poisoning herself, smile too wide to be sincere but I could never tell the difference. We were handed plates of china and silverware somehow too posh to touch against those dishes. I thought it was pure enough that it might bend in my fingers just from holding it. I stayed suspicious of taste. We were served in courses counting higher than any person could truly eat and maybe that’s when I thought to start taking less and trying more. We made a slow move to clear the crowd.

There was a mention of allergies, an alarmed response, and a laugh at the panic in the face of nothing blooming. I was too busy scanning for mistakes and picking apart all the deconstructed culinary attempts to find the humor in it. I was a courting critic already unhappy with the setting and was now trying to make sure it could be led with a match. She didn’t opine, just swallowed and drowned until the silver stopped whirling back to our side. The waiters would clear the table, leaving it blank with only our thoughts to place between us, and all we found was silence and a dwindling fire.