Reflections of a night imbued by silk roses and silk hands, followed by silk pecks formed by silk bills; an evening that shone with the fervor of the maiden moon at the end of a dark fairytale where everyone lives happily ever after in Gothic bliss, all so gorgeously Gomez and Morticia, from the crown of the shadowy head to the soles of rotting feet.

I remember the spools of black lace splashed upon my gown; erectly I stood, statuesque as an Edwardian heroine, beaming as I clutched my sweetheart whose eyes danced the blue dance of a dying swan; mine were sadder still, he always reminded---beautiful but sad, like a big-eyed calf an hour or two after birth, so innocent of its imminent slaughter.

We were poignant the way we mouthed our words, the way we echoed “I love you” on the floor where all the other girls squeezed into painful slippers while I pranced barefoot, brandishing chocolate-colored nails; he had once caressed those petite toes, nuzzled them with his black beak, the faithful bird that he was, crooning little phrases (surely the sweetest little phrases) I could not understand but adored with every feather upon myself.

But that was a night of fingers and tongues---the ball of balls, the date of dates, the memory of memories; and, you, do you remember your promotion, murkily at least?