The lovers loitered on the deck talking, the men who were with men and the men who were with new women, a little shrill and electric, and the wifely women who had repose and beautifully lined faces and coppery skin. She had taken the turkey from the oven and her friends were talking on the deck in the steady sunshine. She imagined them drifting toward the food, in small groups, finishing sentences, lifting a pickle of a sliver of turkey, nibbling a little with unconscious pleasure. And she imagined setting it out artfully, the white meat, the breads, antipasto, the mushrooms and salad arranged down the oak counter cleanly, and how they all came as in a dance when she called them. She carved meat and then she was crying. Then she was in darkness crying. She didn't know what she wanted. |
© 1979 from Praise, Ecco Press, 1979