Last Toast

About this work

Sonoma vineyard. Saturday night, after the speeches. String lights sway in the tent, and only the maid of honor's chair is empty. Bridget is twenty-seven, a married woman from Boston. Sage silk, a thigh slit, nude heels in one hand, a loft key in the other.

“The extra champagne.” Her husband is still filming the bouquet at the head table. Stay for the next song and the night is only a toast. Climb the loft stairs, and the vineyard lights stay below.