Slice Of Life

Warmth of a late spring night; a hint of cool breeze and jasmine in the air; sky of a baby blue.

A perfect night to face one’s loneliness.

The girl smiles as she holds the man’s hand. They stroll toward the big glass door, her feet barely touching the marble floor of the grand entrance to the symphony hall. He opens the door and lets her in.

Three storey high ceilings, spiral staircase, lights, suspended in the air. People, still and silent, are listening to a trio of two Spanish guitars and a sound of the heels beating against the floor. A middle aged woman is dancing; her skirt of a bloody red and pinch black is flying around her legs wrapped in heavy stockings.

The girl feels the man’s hand around her shoulder leading her away. They walk through another set of glass door.

“Do you have a reservation?” A polite and formal voice of a waiter welcomes them in.

“No, we don’t. We are here for an appetizer and a drink.” She replies.

Still holding hands, they follow the waiter to a small table next to a floor to ceiling glass curved wall.

As they walk, the girl feels someone is looking at her. A tiny annoying feeling, disturbing this night of a pure perfection. Her eyes run over the place. There is no one she recognized. Still, the feeling stays.

“Is this one fine with you?”

The girl looks at a small square table, white cloth and a single flower in a tiny glass vase in the middle of it.

“Is it OK?” She looks up at the man.

He nods.

“Yes, thank you, this table is perfect.”

The waiter takes away the copper plates, helps her to sit down and walks away.

The whole world seems to melt away around her. There is nobody but her and the man. He holds her bare hand and squeezes it. She smiles as her body swirls into the warmth of his touch.

“I thought it was you!” An abrupt voice from behind makes her turn.

The man pulls away his hand.

“What a surprise!” She puts excitement into her voice and forces a smile.

In front of her, someone she runs into once or twice a year; a gorgeous woman in her middle forties. A visit to a salon, a late morning shopping, a sinking bath for an hour with round pieces of cucumber on her eyes before going out to the symphony.

The girl asks if the woman is here by herself.

“No, of course not.” The woman carefully smiles to hide her age and points toward the bar, a diamond ring sparkling on her finger.

The girl’s eyes follow the sparking.

Ten women. Ten gorgeous women, dressed up in gold, diamonds, late morning shopping and cucumbers, like hens on a perch. Each of them, sipping five dollar happy-hour martinis, all of them chatting and smiling, all of them so desperately alone. Some are happy to escape their husbands; some have given up on their man to be here with them to share the warmth of this night and the sounds of Bolero.

The girl looks at her hand still resting on the white cloth table, on the sisterhood of her bare fingers.

She smiles at the man sitting in front of her then glances back at the woman.

“Yes, it was very nice to see you, too.”