Andrea J. Buchanan

5
After being with Samuel, I remembered. It all came flooding back to me, and I remembered what it was that had set Mor off, what had precipitated my hospitalization. It was the dinner party and salon held by Mrs. Whiting, his patron.

When we’d arrived that night, I had been struck by the sheer extravagance of the Whitings’ place, an entire two floors, twelve stories above Fifth Avenue, far too grand to be an apartment. They had a library, a full dining room, an elevator, servants’ quarters. There was opulence everywhere, art I’d only seen in books. The floors shone, and I thought about the effort it would take to clean them.

This is just conversation, this is a give-and-take, this is not something that requires a real answer, I reminded myself. This is a politeness. In fact I did not truly look well. I saw myself reflected in the speckled mirror surrounding the booth. I saw how the golden flecks and veins couldn’t hide my splotchy cheeks, still red from the walk over, my out-of-fashion hairstyle.

And Samuel. I smiled as I realized he was watching me watch everyone else, and I dropped my eyes for a moment, not wanting to draw Mor’s attention to our silent communication.