I head for the buffet table to pour myself a drink.
A glass of wine in one hand,
a croissant in the other,
Nerves make me hungry.
I reach for my fourth croissant,
but I am halted by a man's exclamation,
"Slow down, leave enough for the rest of us will you."
"My apologies." I say, not looking behind me.
He stands beside me,
He's stature fills the periphery of my vision.
I grab the pastry.
It will be my last, I promise myself.
He says, "Look over there."
As I turn to see where he points to,
my thoughts scream, 'Sir Frederick?'
His next words bring me out of my daze,
"A beauty like no other, isn't she?"
"Yes," I say, not knowing of whom sir speaks of.
The MC's voice cuts through the conversation,
"Representing the House of Aaron Lady Isa McBess."
I am twenty-three, and she is far older than I.
She walks with the grace of a queen,
and her gown of magenta dye
skirts the floor.
This must be the beauty unlike any other
that Sir Frederick was bringing to my attention.
She reminds me of an article I read last week.
Age is just a number, its title was.
This woman
may be its personification.