Dinner Party (standard:horror, 1542 words)
Author: radiodenver	Added: Aug 29 2004	Views/Reads: 3363/2225	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Nothing beats good food and good company

Dinner Party 

“Come on in.”  Albert said as Lilly tiptoed through the open door. 
“Shh, be quiet, he's napping on the couch.”  Albert gently pushed the 
door closed and Lilly followed him towards the kitchen. 

“Am I the first one here?”  Lilly asked. 

“Yes, but not by much.  Fran and Billy are on their way, the others
should be here soon too.”  Albert replied. 

At fifty four years of age, Lilly looked much younger in her bell bottom
jeans and tie-died cotton gauze blouse.  Still playing the role of the 
Hippy Chick well beyond her youth, Lilly never seemed to let go of her 
glory days as a 60's groupie.  Albert didn't care one way or another; 
he was too caught up in his modern art world to give more than a 
passing thought to the clothing habits of his Hippy Chick friend of 
many years. 

“I've got the spinach salad ready.  Can you sit this on the table?” 
Albert asked. 

“Sure.  Mind if I put on Tate's CD?  How long has Tate been asleep?” 

“About an hour, we were up drinking late last night.  He crashed on the
couch and has been out like a light since.” 

Lilly placed the large hand crafted pottery bowl of spinach salad on the
table.  Retrieving Tate's CD from her purse, she inserted it in the 
player.  On the couch a few feet away, Tate lay silent as the music 
from his soon to be released Blues CD echoed through the open loft. 

“Tate's music is so great.  I can't believe that it took him this long
to get signed to a label.”  Lilly danced across the wood floor towards 
the rear wall of the loft, the wall where Albert's paintings hung.  A 
landscape of the Mountains, another landscape of the Mountains, this 
one with a dirt trail in the foreground and a tree.  She danced her 
mesmerizing wiggle, her Hippy Chick dance, admiring the artwork, 
unspoken words hanging on her lips, her body moving rhythmically to the 
blues guitar sounds of Tate's music. 

“Why don't you sell these paintings Albert?” 

“I don't want to sell these, they mean too much to me.  The one you're
looking at isn't done yet.  Notice the clouds, I just added to that one 
last night.”  Albert's paintings were always in a state of 
incompletion.  Albert's insecurity about the quality of his work and 
his fear of rejection kept him from finishing anything and provided a 
good excuse for not facing that fear.  Albert knew his friends could 
never muster the nerve to tell him his work was average.  Living the 
Bohemian life within a circle of artists and their friends, one always 
pretends the quality of the others works was far greater than it 
actually was.  A living denial of the truth, ignorance of reality, to 
be honest would distract from some feigned detachment from mainstream 
society.  “I'll take them down to the gallery one day, I'm sure.”  
Albert dreaded the thought of one of his masterpieces hanging above a 
couch in some yuppie's den while their kids played video games on the 
television.  Opening the oven door, Albert removed his gastronome, a 
well seasoned baked salmon, and sat it on the counter.  “This looks 
perfect.” 

Two light raps echoed across the cavernous room.  Lilly turned from her
admiring of Albert's paintings and danced towards the door. 

“I'll get that.”  Lilly peeked through the eye-hole.  “Fran!  Billy! 
Great to see you.”  Lilly hugged each as they stepped into the entryway 
of the loft.  Gripping two bottles of wine, Billy returned Lilly's hug 
with a delicate kiss on the cheek.  Fran, holding a brown wax bag 
containing a loaf of fresh baked Foccocia, navigated towards the 
kitchen where Albert was preparing the remainder of the dinner.  In the 
background, the sound of Tate's guitar was enticing; the slow electric 
blues placing everyone in a festive and friendly mood. 

“I love this song.”  Billy said to Lilly as he removed his black leather
jacket.  “Tate is so damn good.  Where is he?” 


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