Plate

Porcelain honeys with french legs, peeking under their maiden skirts. Singing in a broadway revue at the top of their lungs. The young girl in a farmers dress sits at the end of the dark mahogany table — surprised and astounded, as she waits for a palatial dinner. A candle with an indomitable smile swirls about, the flicker of his hair dancing more gleefully than the forks and knives. The sound of cutlery scraping across the floor, as they jump up and down — cheering in pent-up ecstasy, released after 40 years.

Outside, the palace is dark, a mountain of a shadow blanketing the whole dreary scene. A gnarly figure sits on his chair, stooped over in despondent disgust — regret looming beyond the mountain. The cruel wind blows in through the window, lifting the drapes high to the ceiling — piercing his fur, piercing his skin. He can’t feel a thing.