It was the porcelain spoons, five of them. Goldilocks waited, her unused hand tucked, in accordance with its training, into the small of her back, as if it were the rule that all non-serving parts of her body must be tidied deferentially from view. Perhaps it was.Michael peered at the lumps, heat-edged with brown, in their drip of soup.'What are they?' he asked.'Foie gras, sautéed in oloroso sherry.''Mmm, foie gras,' he enthused, making a hash of the r.He picked up one of the spoons and tipped it into his mouth. The liver deliquesced.'Wow, that's fabulous!' He nodded with vigorous sincerity, and a gentle swirly drunken feeling lingered in the movement's echo. He closed his eyes to steady himself.When he opened them, Goldilocks had gone.He still held his phone in one hand, and the spoon in the other. The spoon went in his pocket.
The Afterparty (2011)