Tiny table for two, secluded, dim.
Plate glass view, overlooks the sea.
Champagne, in tall fluted glasses. Silverware. White dinner plate, sideplate. Cutlery, in ascending order. Precarious candlesticks.
I wear a short mini, patterned black suspender stockings. Strappy heels, miles high.
No glasses: specs are not romantic.
You: elegant, assured. Distinguished silver sideburns. Bow tie. Faultlessly picking your way through the maze.
I fiddle with the charm bracelet you gave me for our first aniversary… flirt with the charm you gave me then…the ostrich…the lightest.
Now, the chain is chokkablock full of charms. Elephants, rhino.
The tortoise, 18 carrat, the heaviest, last year.
Gold, all beautifully carved.
I wonder if there is an animal left for you to give me today. Maybe you will start with another theme…the constellations perhaps?
Impetuously I’m back then, 18 years old, beautiful. I reach for your hand. Myopically. Missed. Knock the champagne instead. Grab at it, wipe out the candlestick. Lace cloth in flames. Stagger back, unacoustomed heels, shards of glass.
This whole romance thing sucks…