That left Morgan alone with the wine, cheese, and sausage, which was far more enjoyable that
the painful small talk. His flute was nearly empty. He sat in a nearby chair, and one of the women
approached and he held up the glass absentmindedly to be filled.
The woman was holding an enormous bottle. She now squatted beside him, tilted the bottle,
and carefully—very carefully—poured the yellow-gold liquid into the narrow glass while Morgan held it
very still. Then, when she tipped the bottle upright, Morgan looked up at her.
And his entire world stopped. He had had no thought, other than to mumble a weak thank you,
but his words, when he spoke, were now jumbled and all over each other, and nothing he said was
coherent.
The woman, simply put, was beautiful. She had an oval face, with a sweep of freckles across
both cheeks. Her hair was something of a dirty blond, tied back into a loose pony tail, with more than a
few stray hairs hanging about her forehead. Her eyes were large and expressive, and one was green and
the other blue.
Now that she had filled his glass, she started to stand, and Morgan did not want her to leave. He
reached out, without thought, and touched one of her hands with his. She gently pulled away, and
looked at him with an expression that he could not read. Then she turned, and moved to fill another
person’s glass. Morgan was left with the memory of her touch, which lingered with him, and the
recollection that her fingernails, which were painted blue, were chipped, and had ragged edges.
He watched her—while trying not to let her see him doing so—as she progressed around room
with her large wine bottle. She moved with an easy, athletic grace, and was about his own age and
height. She wore, he could now see, a single tiny earing in each ear, and he was amused to notice that
one was green and the other blue. She was wearing somewhat baggy pants that were light brown in
color, a rose-colored blouse with loose sleeves, and had a wide, red bandana tied across her head. She
was simply the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And now, for Morgan, she was the only person
in the room—there were no others.
He sat alone for the rest of the get-together, thankful for no company, totally enamored with
the woman who now stood quietly in the back of the room. He drained his wine glass, and held it to one
side, hoping that the woman would return to fill it.
But she did not—instead another woman walked over and filled his glass from another immense
bottle. He was disappointed, and although he was still living inside a bubble of incredible
lightheadedness, he noticed this woman was petite, wore a dark, unadorned dress, and had very
lightweight, slipper-like shoes on her feet. He touched the wine glass to his lips, but drank little, and he
continued to fantasize about the other woman—the one in the back of the room.
But then something in his brain woke with a sudden realization. It was caused by the woman
who had just served him, and he knew it had to do with her fingernails. They were immaculate, finely
tapered and rounded to a point, with a flawless light green color. And then he realized that she wore a
somewhat elegant dress and lightweight shoes, and had not a single hair out of place. She was a model
of refinement and correctness. And she matched every other woman who was serving drinks and snacks
in the room.
The other woman—the woman who still stood in the back of the room—was wearing pants, a
loose-fitting blouse, lightweight boots, and had quite a few hairs out of place. And—he
remembered—her fingernails were cracked and the polish on her fingernails was chipped. She did not fit
in, Morgan realized. She did not fit in at all. And he also noticed that she had no real purpose for being in
the room. In fact, all she was doing was standing near the back wall, unmoving and watching.
That—Morgan also realized—made her the most interesting person in the room. By far.