Ella and I held hands beneath the three-tiered chandelier that hung like an inverted wedding cake above us. Its crystal teardrops cast shimmering rainbows against the knock off Louis XVI china cabinet and the carnage of our Thanksgiving feast stretched out before us. I squeezed Ella’s hand once. Nothing. I squeezed, two more times in quick succession and felt the feeble pressure of her dimpled hand against mine, now once, now twice. We were waiting for the sweet parade of pies, our pulsating palms like two heartbeats signaling to each other in the dark. Pools of it gathered in the corners of the dining room, shadows upon shadows, deepened by the lavender painted walls.
