Rashida MurphyI forgot the balloons.
Not a big deal. There’s bound to be a couple left over somewhere, from another time. Maybe Rosa can find them. I make a mental note to check with her as I hang pink satin hearts over the fireplace before the first guests arrive. Jordan in pink and Lou in black, the sleeves of her dress ballooning out. Perfect. The house soon fills with people in various shades of cerise, with few opting for the classic LBD. I am sable from head to toe of course, and I can’t wait for Celia. She’ll rock ‘our’ dress and that silk bolero I’ve had for years. A 30th she will remember with thirty of our friends.
As the night deepens, Celia sprawls on the couch, while Rosa and I make perfunctory attempts to tidy up and tipsy friends look for more food.
‘Leave it,’ I tell Rosa. ‘We’ll deal with it in the morning.’
‘It IS morning,’ she says. ‘But you’re right. Later.’ She drops down beside Celia.
‘I’m going to bed,’ I say.
It is mid-afternoon when I wake and the house is spotless, the smell of coffee lingering in the kitchen. Oh Rosa. She thinks of everything. I pour a cup of coffee and step outside. There they all are, on that crisp lawn that refuses to thrive, despite twice-weekly soaks. Thirty bodies laid out neatly, Rosa waving a cigarette from under the jacaranda. Celia’s ankles are tied with a pink bow, my bolero over her face.
‘Nice touch,’ I say as I step over our friends and lean in for Rosa’s smoky kiss.
