it was a dinner torn out of martha stewart living. the sun was setting, the perrier was chilling and the pasta was boiling. tables were set in the backyard with red floral china, napkin rings that looked like fresh berries and vases with a single rose bud.
i kept notes with my eyes so that i could remember to follow suit when i had a house of my own, although i kept pretending it already was my house. a sun room and art on the walls and happy colored furniture and a garden that would make you cry. i imagined throwing dinner parties and getting my hands dirty in the soil and sitting on the porch with a book.
my cousin cooked a wonderful summer meal: melon wrapped in prociutto topped in lemon creme fraische, caviar and dill; fettucine with a light lobster sauce; a gorgonzola, sundried tomato, walnut salad; and garlic crostini. i drank perrier and white wine.
marix & i talked about our experiences planting flowers, framing artwork and cooking filipino dishes for the first time, a combination of domestic successes and failures. we couldn’t help but laugh at ourselves playing house.
when i looked at my watch for the first time that evening, i couldn’t believe my eyes. it was 10:30. oh god, was it really 10:30? it was, and i had to go.
i excused myself from the table, kissed everyone goodbye and ran out the door, as gracefully as cinderella scrambling down the steps. it was suspicious and perhaps even improper of me to leave before dessert, but i didn’t have time to explain. i was late for a show.