There was a lamb shoulder stuffed with swiss chard and the swish of a country dress, a clean one-bedroom and flutes of champagne, a forkful of lemon cloud and my own sore fingers from lifting a pan of too-hot Easter cookies.
The sun streamed in from a wall-less moment, the wine did nothing to dissuade the devolving of conversation: transsexuals, our brackets, gossip.
An intimate and beautiful Easter, the likes of which I have not had in a long time; no stress, many hands to clean the mess, and feeling not just full, but simply satisfied all day long.
And then I went home, peeled off those swiss dots, and tried to reinvent a word for “the indie set” for my article due this morning…
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1 comment:
where were you?
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