My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie She stared wistfully out the window, wondering if tonight's events could ever be repeated. But as her fingers obsessively traced and retraced the damp, criss-crossed ebony pane, she was certain that it wasn't going to happen the way she wanted ever again. It wasn't just the way her darling had dressed, in that wonderful red top and black sweater vest, cuffs bedecked with fragments of cold, the long hair splaying out to the sides in delightful waves. It wasn't just the way her hand had been held, her chin lifted by two firm fingers, her lips caressed by warm, moist smiles. They had walked together quietly, the mellow lights of suburbia guiding them to small Italian restaurants and cafés. The champagne, bubbly and happy, had not helped. Nor had the frenzy of colors along the waters of the park as they whirled around in darkening, deepening grass. And most of all, the ring. She rubbed her ring finger where it now rested - silver and blue and glass

"Let's talk about Sandy," said Gregory, as he poured me another glass of Riesling. The sweetness of the wine was able to reduce my headache somewhat, and I paused to rub my temples with two of the fingers on my left hand. "What's there to talk about?" Gregory didn't change his expression. "You haven't spoken to her in four days. There has to be a reason why."