Diamonds and Duck Confit

The room begins to fill up with the evening’s guests.  Slowly they trickle in, dressed and manicured, grabbing glasses of champagne with hands wearing expensive wedding rings.  I recognize some of the dresses they are wearing – designer dresses that get paraded down catwalks.  I never could figure out why people would spend five grand on a dress or where they would every wear it. Apparently, this is where.  On a Wednesday night on 5th Avenue, in the store of a famous designer, surrounded by things to purchase and free booze.  This is the destination for such fabulousness.  Again, reality does not live up to my expectations.

Women separate themselves into their Upper East Side cliques, followed by their Louboutin shadows; the telltale red soles of shoes forever in their wake.  The blondes are all the same blonde, bleached and unhealthy looking, what was once hair now rendered into high-maintenance straw.  Sagging elbows and lifted faces.  Women in dresses too short or too low, their age-defying outfits not defying anything, especially gravity.

Necks and ears and hands sparkle with jewelry, making the room’s pallor seem even duller by comparison.  They laugh, reservedly.  They kiss each other on the cheeks, carefully.  They watch one another, jealously.

This is not a world to live in.  This land of diamonds and duck confit, mansions and makeup, Central Park views.

The terminally bored and totally fabulous eat their canapés served by thin and handsome young men, stuffing their mouths with gourmet grilled cheese and steak carpaccio.  Wives are followed closely by husbands in navy suits and beautiful dress shoes, Ivy League haircuts and handsome wrinkles.

There is a woman with eyebrows laid forever in heavy concern.  She looks like a reporter – out of place and too intelligent.  She doesn’t have a date and she doesn’t belong and she interests me the most.  She talks to the servers, which most of the people don’t.  Their conversations are always limited to a terse “Thank you” or a headshake.

I watch from above, standing on a platform and biding me time as the blood from my whole body begins to pool cruelly into my feet wearing a pair of six-inch heels in the wrong size, dying to leave a place that so many people want to be.  This place like a beautiful building, waiting for its paint to peel.

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