the gala

There’s a champaign flute in her hand, shimmering, glittering- a perfect accent to the room, but it’s powerless in its attempts to draw attention away from her eyes. She’s standing, talking to some people in casual conversation, but who she’s simultaneously miles away from.

She sees him and the ends of her mouth quickly betray a smile then return back to the task, the chat, at hand. He sees her dress, black, wrapped around her and accenting all that’s good in the world. He takes another sip of his drink and turns back to his own conversation.

“And that’s why architecture is a fucked up business.” Ralph says, looking for a place to set his drink.

“Howard Roark would laugh.” He says.

“Who is Howard Roark?” Ralph places his drink on the adjacent table. “Is he an architect? Do I know him?”

“In a way.” He says. “Excuse me, I’m going to get another drink.” He leaves his half full drink.

The bartender looks bored, redoing the top button on his vest. “What can I get you?”

“Honestly, out of here. But I’ll take a Wild Turkey rocks as a poor substitution.”

There’s an underbreath chuckle from the bartender as he scoops ice and pours the drink.

He looks towards her, she meets his eyes and walks towards him.

“Want to get out of her dear?”

“God yes.” She places her drink on the bar and they walk to the waiting car, his hand hugging her side and her his.