(Flash fiction on the theme of pleasure)
The ball is over. Chairs stand like silent sentinels, their tumbled silhouettes baring record of revels, each telling its story. The table’s rows, once neat and occupied, are now abandoned, askew, their late owners having vacated to other pleasures.
The ballroom chairs tell of wallflowers, sitting primly, fans aflutter. Masculine chairs turn in clusters where rowdy conversation once reigned. Drunken chairs, like their owners, lay in sprawled stupor.
But what is this? A peal of childish laughter breaks the silence, as a dog, bright eyed, ears flapping bounds across the room pursued by running feet, soft and fresh from sleep. As one day ends another begins. A white cloth, formerly adorning the counter becomes a tug of war, – sharp teeth versus chubby hands. A pitcher of wine that managed to survive the night’s foray falls victim, and, seized upon by eager fingers, gives forth its last drop to a reckless little mouth. Boy and dog scamper off leaving behind their own trail of muddy debris.
Then, with a yawn, the parlor maid arrives, broom and bucket in hand. No pleasure for her lies ahead, just dusting and cleaning from now unto bed.