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When the Cornice Falls


There will always be enough consolation for those who know where to look. Last night, consolation came in a cup.

Or in a cocktail glass. I was given a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream. On the house, the bartender said. It came with a little sweet cherry, token drizzles of chocolate and strawberry syrup, all in a frozen margarita glass. I never knew ice cream and cold beer can go together. Or I never knew you can have them at the same time. Just the same it couldn't have come at a better time.

There I was, tired but exuding a silent happiness only a productive day could give me: silent because no one will understand if I share my happiness--precisely why I went out for drinks alone. To celebrate? to reward myself? or to leave it all behind just as one leaves a work of art to itself after gazing upon it.

But more than that--because I usually do that already--I was by myself last night because someone else had canceled plans, which, by the way, was really expected. I had even wished it wouldn't push through so I can go on to my little party by the bar. Well, well. We always get what we wish for.

I learned--or I saw--that there was an indiscretion on her part. Liar liar pants on fire. Half-drunk and totally hungry, and with my usual support group laughing all the way to hell with me (funny, funny), I froze what was left of my happiness in the cup of ice cream that was kindly given without me asking or with me even declining--at first.

Then there was silence. Even a smile. It was the best vanilla ice cream that I ever had.

So much destruction, so much consolation.



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