Fathoms

She held a pleasant, warm, sociable smile, though she noticed her tuxedoed husband sullenly approaching her from the right. The trio of glamorous and nameless partygoers with whom she was engaged kept their collective gaze fixed on her as she laughed lightly and concludingly offered, “Right, soon everything will surface.”

To this, the cocktailers responded with a dazzled and dazed cocktail party laugh, which complimented the ritzy curtains, polished hardwood floor, and swaying crowd of people who were either interesting or pretending to be. As she turned to face her other half, her former company easily flowed from square to triangle and their drunken, playful discussions on topics which were both intellectually informed and culturally engaging became a muddled soundtrack to the knowing eye contact between husband and wife. They drew towards one another alongside the room’s Eastern wall.

Even beneath such thick handsome fabric, his bulky shoulders and general frame appeared defeated. His jaw was clenched and eyes were glazed — the fragile, spherical, glassy surface of them preparing to water.

With a sparkling yet un-sipped champagne flute held elegantly in her left hand, she placed her right naturally and tenderly on the back on his arm.

He looked down at his dress shoes he had shined just a few hours before and found them to be ridiculous. He raised his eyebrows, and his head along with them to meet her eyes. When they locked she understood that he felt the weight of this environment differently than she did.

She applied gentle pressure to the back of his arm and, to his relief, they began to glide, more than walk, westward beneath the chandelier and towards the double doors. She smiled and nodded their way to coat check. She looked stunning, and he, distant. With each step towards the exit he felt like a scuba diver slowly depressurizing as he rose one fathom at a time out of the deep’s thickness and closer to the surface.

* * *

He buttoned his peacoat and secured his fur lined hat as they stood in the crisp-aired courtyard, awaiting their ride. He listened for the gentle crackling of distant compressed gravel and watched the air visibly escaping from the Mrs.’s painted lips. This reminded him to breathe, fully and deeply allowing his shoulders to rise and lower.

Their dark silhouettes, his sleek and hers slender, were framed by the beige rectangle of neoclassical architecture within which the party was held, and ultimately backgrounded by the milky, never ending black of night. Silk met leather as she tucked her hand into his palm and together they gazed above the drive, main gate, and tree line, and into the distant darkness.