In the middle of thirty women talking

We're shoulder to shoulder at the
best party of the year. One of those dangerous,
catered parties, where waiters refill
your glass, so you can't count your drinks.
An extravagant party where the furniture
is hiding in rooms upstairs. There is
dancing in the coachhouse. Women are grinding
the parmesan cheese on the dance floor,
where smoking is permitted.
I broke my hand, she said, falling
off a horse.
Women arent allowed cheese, her friend
says. They have to be skinny all the time.
That's how the French women stay skinny. This,
from a third woman.
Curiosity, the woman who had fallen
off a horse said, is its own reward.
I dont think women get their vulvas
stared at enough. That was one woman
to the boyfriend of another. I guess it
was advice. She hadnt broken her hand falling off
a horse. That was her new story. She
had broken her hand doing dishes, but that
answer was not Tolstoyan enough.
She had her glass filled with the
Chardonnay that was not Australian.
The hardwood floor had electrical
outlets where the lamps would be
if the furniture had not been moved.
There was a joke told about how Jesus
saves. And takes half damage. It's a
joke I cannot uncloak but someone
at this blog will decipher for me.
Guests had removed their shoes, but,
like me, put them back on at around
midnight, to combat the naughty
shoed company that dripped their
evil outdoor melt. A fantastic party. It's
always a good sign when youve barely
spoken to a man all night. When the
beautiful women in their twinkly
sleeveless outfits or even their
smart dark numbers seem to fill the
air with the cotton of their exuberant
joy. God do I love that cotton.