shaking the kaleidoscope

she cupped her hands close to her chin, the dim light from the deck surreptitiously caught her breast (higher), eyes. her eyes lingered, flitting over the contours of her hands, cupped as if holding the first diamond, or daydreaming, possibly. inside her hands i imagined she was daydreaming. daydreaming of the two us laughing at big, fellaheen cocktail parties on the boardwalk of some distant harbor, somehow, another distant, glittering boston, and overhead the skyline intermingling and intermixing with the christmas tree of stars shimmering in the night sky.

(a pretty girl with a british accent reading paulo coelho excerpts to friends beneath the boardwalk. )

in reverse.

ryan was grilling ribs on the deck beneath the pear tree, helen in the kitchen cooking accompaniments. the sweet smell of pumpkin pie. everyone was gathered in the kitchen, or on the deck with the o.s.b. constructed club-like seating, three candles lit. oh, and some in the living room. ample pabst in the refrigerator, and dan lighting the coal for the hookah. there were streamers, and party hats, some balloons, everyone was gathered for jon’s birthday.

the ribs were ready and helen finished the mac and cheese casserole, green beans, and corn bread. we ate and discussed yesterday’s summer.

when the plates were cleared, emily brought out the cake. it looked like a chocolate volcano, and she made jon pour vinegar into the top. the volcano cake overflowed.

“we’re supposed to eat that?” landon asked.

emily ripped the volcano off. "plaster of paris!" she said. underneath was a plate of chocolate covered strawberries. “fifth-grade science project!” someone yelled. sophomoric, sure, but good for a laugh. everyone laughed, and the party was underway.

the fete continued on, and the birthday was wonderful. people filed out intermittently. towards the end of the night, the plates were being cleared from the deck. i was talking with ryan about his plans for the year and the designer he’s having differences with. as the last people were leaving, i looked out on the deck and the moths were fluttering furiously around the light overhead. she was standing on the far end with her hands cupped close to her chin. i watched as she stood there silently. then as if parting the air for her ghost to pass, she separated her hands and a dull-grey moth escaped into the sad night air.

we left and went back to her apartment.

grey light through the oblong windows, a saxophone droning down the street.

“i’m happy to be going to bed.” she said. “that was lovely.”

“it was, wasn’t it?”

i entered her bedroom. a brown rose was poised in a slim vase, and on the opposite wall hung a painting of what appeared to be icarus shooting an arrow into the zoroastrian motif of a rising sun.