Sunday, Dec. 21, 2003 @ 1:59 pm
The Gingerbread Party
At the peak of a tinsel strewn party the kitchen seeps gingerbread smells and laughter.
The conversations weave together - a story condenses and solidifies. The story, a story I knew existed but hated to believe.
I sit on the piano bench and Mel is on the couch. She says to me, "I saw Chris shopping the other day. He came into the store." I understand. (She sells lingerie.)
I lean against the banister and Mark sits on the top step. "Hey," he says, "I saw Chris on the set the other day." The movie industry is what we have in common. I look at Mark and all I think about is Chris.
It's ok. But I nearly forgot what Karen said. I hated to ask, but I wanted to know. "Last I talked to him he'd bought a house."
In the back of the Precidia we cruise the highway. The forest reels by, jagged sillhouettes against the bright city sky. In the suburbs the strings of coloured lights kaleidoscope. Drej pulls an e.brake turn in the cul-de-sac, Metallica thumps.
I wonder when I will decide whether or not I made a mistake.