The scene this morning—a disorderly guard of dull green bottles on the trestle; crumpled mute furs on the floorboards, Arctic ghosts; constellations, sparkling shards on the hearth; even the cobwebs visible in bright, high window arches, the motes dancing in stabbing shafts—could speak of an evening of conjugal bliss, of the happy celebration of younger times and selves.
The idea arrived suddenly, as I was carving the lamb. It was something about the consistency of the meat, its yielding springiness, its suggestive coloration, perhaps its steamy dark bouquet that fogged my spectacles and made the stiff hair of my nostrils prickle. Whatever brought it on, as I leaned across the table to place the juicy, bloody serving platter I eyed Cecelia in a new (or rather old) way. She could tell that my manner had changed and made some waspish comment about musty bitterness as I opened the Brochon; and how often have I for her endured simpering Bosc-bashed Piesporter with some faint northern cheese and Brazil nuts? I positioned the tangy cave-aged gruyere closer to her plate than to my own.
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