Photo by Serge Kutuzov on Unsplash
by Mamie Pound
The peaches were past season—firm and beautiful but not sweet. In July they’d paired so well with the Suaternes at the dinner party where a tiny toad leapt onto the patio table and paused, heart racing until a finger poked toward it and it sprang away as quickly as it appeared. Under the amber patio light, between the night blooming jasmine and a limp philodendron, my date, the radio man began to tell a story about the time he met Bob Dylan. But before he could get a good start the hostess raised a glass with, “A Paris; Fluctuat nec mergitur,” in her Savannah accent. “She is tossed by the waves but does not sink,” her husband translated aloud. The elegant swans beside the pool, vexed with the same evil spell that drove the former prince to jump onto the patio table, waited for the perfect moment to escape, sometime after the second round of sauternes and peaches, while the hostess recounted her near-robbery in le metro near the Left Bank.
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Mamie Pound’s work has appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, Image Journal, James Dickey Review, and others.
