Whisky Joy
Her fifth neat seemed to take a long time rolling its way down her throat. She shook her head at the sudden, sharp bite of the alcohol, then slammed down the finger glass.
A full moon held sway over the red flagstone patio, fading tone and color of rock already worn with age and time. Tiny white lights strung through the trees contributed to the washed-out, faded look. It matched her emotional state; bleached to clarity, as though she didn't exist.
Voices swirled around her; no calls meant for her, beyond a lifting of the chin in acknowledgment. It was the sort of cocktail party that seemed endless in it line-up of figures and boring conversations.
Her eyes fell upon a familiar pink playhouse.
She coughed around her tongue, feeling the rough scrape of loss against the back of her neck. She felt composed and yet completely out of control as she knelt and pushed her way through the plastic double-doors.
Inside, against the cool grass, the innocent play world of a child's dream seemed to be twisted, surrealistic. Green was blue; white was pearlescent. Everything seemed to be covered in a layer of dust.
She examined the palm-sized teacups and could recall the way they fit against his hand, the way he lifted the cup and smiled at her over the rim.
How troubled their relationship had been; she had fought his mother, his job, just for a chance to be together. But when the time came, she chose to protect herself.
Now her only accompaniment was loneliness.
"Is it quieter in there?"
She jumped at the sound of his voice, but coolly responded. "I suppose."
"Room for one more?"
She nodded.
He pretended to study the fancy molding of the window. "Edna, have you ever wondered why I was single for so long?"
She hazarded a guess. "Your mother, perhaps?"
"I met a woman named Patty through the Simpson family. She was an incredible, enchanting woman." He sighed. "And when I proposed to her, she told me no. The pain was worse than anything the Viet-Cong tried."
"I'm sorry." She said, her voice still cool. "I'm sure that I was nothing compared to her."
"You're wrong. I wouldn't have ever gotten over that rejection, were it not for your love."
"Oh, Seymour." She sighed. "Do you wonder if we made a mistake?"
"Every day of my life. But you're not willing to take me back, are you?"
"Did you ask me?"
"No."
"Maybe." She turned to him in the dim light of the moon. "You should."
But his lips didn't need to bother forming words, when a kiss told her things that were unfathomable in any language.