Her hand falls over you, her fingers digging into the pile. She collects a small bunch of  four lillies, rolling you into her palm where she keeps you all in place with her thumb. Her other fingers search for more, adding a fifth and a sixth, both guests laughing at nothing in particular. You’re all raised slowly into the air away from the bowl, immobilised, pressed against the other lillies on both sides, your back against her warm palm, her thumb across your waist keeping you secured.

 

She shifts you all over her champagne glass, a tall flute half-full with the bubbling golden drink, and addresses you for the first time. “Anyone?”

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August 17
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Collect