The long dining room table is set for a formal dinner party. I take photos of fish forks and soup spoons, of glasses for reds and glasses for whites, of carefully-folded napkins. “Can’t you just imagine the spread!”
“What do you think they were going to be serving?” Bill asks, humoring me.
“Oh, something delicate, like quail. Or maybe venison steaks, killed in the day’s hunt. Fennel, arugula, truffles…”
“And for dessert?”
I walk toward him until my face is next to his. “Strawberries with cream,” I purr, and as we kiss I imagine I hear glasses tinkling behind us.