My Cardboard Balcony

There Were Five by Belinda Roddie There were five women at the eatery, munching and crunching and drinking red wine as dark and foamy as the velvet sea. Two seemed to be in love, and that was fine. The other three appeared to be dismayed at the small portions on their plates. They sighed and buzzed, yet still the oaken Cabernet flowed on and on into their glasses. By the time my wife and I finished dessert, two bottles had been drained, innards consumed, while the two lovers cooed and did not blurt out obscene rants like their friends. I assumed that they would stay much longer once the rest were gone, and for them, that was for the best.

It was long past my bedtime, but I didn't care. I found my mother's pack of cigarettes in her purse. Right between her lipstick and her pocket mirror, just the way she always left it. Then I kicked open my window and shuffled onto the slanted roof, letting the smoke of my first lit stogie mingle with the fog of the autumn night. Across the street from my house was Arthur's house. He must have been asleep by now. The stars were particularly bright just the trees nearby, though I wasn't exactly sure why.