Three bachelorettes sit with us in good standing. The one who orders veal first meets with the waiter's fussiness insisting upon calling it veau, then with Eugenia's vegan glare. No one argues; she carries the wound to the loo and never comes back. The rest of us surround the celery and olives, in conversation all, no longer judgmental having developed a 'right mind'.
When I peer into a water glass as if it were a distressed mirror, I read her future as she reads my mind and turns to any of the others, her interest anywhere else but in the bridal finery and bonbons of my gaze. I eschew all thoughts of protecting the fabric of the comforter now serving only the putative purpose of color-neutralizing a room.
Bridling as sensitives, we live in this cinema, belong to this film, rehearse these lines, the standards of the plot. Action.