Grand Expensive Vista

As we sipped and mingled, regaled with oldfangled canapés and beguiled, or entertained at least, by gargled oldies, I disengaged and angled across grass tenderly groomed, past where electric tiki torches gleamed, and, alone, gazed, now truly beguiled, at my hosts’ grand expensive vista, mortgaged, yes, and, yes, remortgaged. A low gold moon glowed against a plush black sky gauzed, even filigreed, with stars. Gowned in old-growth oaks glazed with moonlight over their autumn gilt, the hills glowed in concord with the golden moon. I lingered, glad—discomfited and glad— at what my friends’ greed for beauty afforded me. I argued, self against self, what they’d gained and lost, and me with them, entangled as friendship entangles. I nearly groaned aloud with want before my friend grabbed my elbow. “Gorgeous, eh?” I grinned and agreed, my voice greased with hidden envy. From behind us, grilled sirloin, pedigreed meat sublimating on embers, triggered another hunger. Life was not just good, but too good: aged beef, aged wine after bourbon. We hungered, and all the way back to his engorged glass table, hunger was our guide.