Dainty Divine

The garden party began at four, with gloves arranged beside the door and hats pinned neatly, brim to brim, while afternoon grew soft at the rim. At the tea table, every place had been measured out with equal grace. The china wore its palest, finest blue. A spoon was moved a fraction; then moved back into view. Lemon meringue in little squares, red velvet waiting beneath silverware, and every compliment arrived with something polished, something contrived. A woman praised another's dress, the careful waist Another touched the other's sleeve, to smooth what scarcely needed leave. At church, the tables had been set with flowers no one dared to get too close to, lest a petal fall and trouble the arrangement of it all. There were biscuits No. Lemon meringue again, and red velvet arranged like little crimson gems. A lady declined, then thanked the hand that offered twice, as manners planned. She smiled. She lifted up her cup. She drank. She never looked up. By evening, dresses swept the stone, each hem immaculate and known. The garden emptied by degrees, chairs left beneath the thinning trees. Then down the street, the antique store held yesterday behind its door. Silver slept in velvet rows, old porcelain with painted bows, a cabinet full of things that stayed exactly where their owners had them laid. One little cup, hairline-cracked, was lifted, admired, then put back. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s quite alright.” It’s all rather dainty divine when nothing has to cross the line. At a quarter to seven, the guests withdrew, their gloves still white, their manners too. Scarfs fastened neatly at the throat, pearls tucked beneath a winter coat. The hostess counted every plate. The smallest cup was slightly late. It was found beneath the garden chair, beside one glove and a fallen hair. No one remarked upon the blue. No one remembered who last knew. The cup was washed. The shelf was wiped. The tablecloth was folded right. And in the evening, as before, the gloves would wait beside the door. Cabinets were locked at half-past nine. Tomorrow, everything would be fine. In the morning, as always before, the silver would shine once more.