The Prettiest Thing Is The Dinner Table After a Dinner Party

When the last glass is poured and the last napkin thrown there you are, alone, at the center of the table, whether you truly are or not it feels like the world has turned in on itself and you are there looking out from behind a bottle of amber liquid that makes your head spin. When the last candle drowns itself in a teaspoon of wax so that the black stick stands alone, smoking lightly where the fire used to be. When the dishes pile up, shinning white on white, night on light. Perfect is nice but the beauty is better where wine is smudged into the wood and clam sauce dribbles down your chin and the music lets you in.