(13)
—Originally publshed in The Roanoke Review, Fall 1996
Continued from page (12)
“That was yesterday. Tomorrow’s here.”
Clarissa’s shoulders sagged. She walked to the bar. There, on the tray,
were the three champagne glasses and what remained of the Dom Perignon. She emptied the
bottle into two of the glasses and held out one. “There isn’t much left.”
Sam walked to the bar and took the glass from her. Together they settled cross-legged
on the cushions before the fire.
Clarissa lifted her glass. “To need and joy.”
Sam raised his. “To the enfants terribles.”
“To the wine games.”
“To the bride and the soldier.”
“To kissing and dying.”
“To love and war.”
“To the We-of-Us.”
Sam lowered his glass.
Clarissa looked at him. “You won’t drink to the We-of-Us, Sam?”
He set his glass on the hearth.
“Sam?”
He studied the hearth.
“I see.” Her hand still held her wine glass aloft. “Well.”
She peered up at the bottom of the glass. “Well, I shall drink to the We-of-Us.” She
tilted her head and drained the glass, then took the bowl of the glass in one hand and the base in the
other. “They say that after a toast to a great event, an event that changes things forever, one
must break one’s glass.”
She snapped the stem. The bowl broke. “Damn. I cut myself.” She opened
her gashed palm. Blood gathered in her hand. “Damn.” She tossed the broken glass into the
fire. A fleck of blood touched his cheek. Another fell into his glass. The fire quickened.
Sam’s champagne bubbled pink. Then it lay calm.
Morning, pale, bright, and clear, streamed through the cold walls of glass.
A crisp wind had whipped the blue bay and sprinkled white dollops over the rumpled face of the
water. Gowned in shining white, Clarissa stood in the glow of the reflected sunshine.
TOM'S TALES