You never imagine humiliation can look this elegant.
The chandeliers above you glow like bottled gold. Crystal glasses wait untouched at thirty immaculate place settings. The mariachi band in the corner stands in respectful silence, instruments lowered, caught in the awkward purgatory between employment and pity. A three-tier cake decorated with sugar agave leaves waits on its silver stand like a monument to a celebration that never arrived.
And in the center of it all, you sit alone.
Your solid-gold watch reads 9:43 p.m., though by now time has stopped feeling like minutes and started feeling like injury. You had arrived at seven forty-five, early enough to inspect the flowers yourself, to confirm the reserve tequila list, to make sure the chair for your youngest granddaughter had an extra cushion because she hated sitting too high at the table. You had smiled at the maître d’, adjusted your cuff links, and thought, with a foolish warmth you would never admit aloud, that maybe turning fifty-five would mean something after all.
