It’s Sunday, it’s raining and I can only barely put up with myself in the dining room. An oblong, mocca ebony dining table that seems endless, no doubt created to host people in company -that is- more than 1 person eating at a time, is my only companion in this spotless, Louis XVI-inspired, cold room. The chandelier drops inches away from my golden rimmed plate -it is supposedly the latest fashion length for this sort of thing -and the pork in front of me is plump, with a red apple in its mouth, making me wonder about how it looked when it was alive.
Dining alone was never my favourite pastime. The crystal, dainty-carved wine glasses, the heavy silver cutlery and the classical music in the background isn’t at all appealing. Not even the gigantic painting,an ode to red, that hangs on the white wall opposite me. Red usually lifts my spirits -not tonight it doesn’t.
“I am working late, I’ll miss you at dinner,” read Dima’s text.
And I wouldn’t mind his absence, if it wasn’t for that silly, red painting hanging on the white wall opposite me.