Satan’s Memory Loft
I am not at liberty to describe in detail what happened to the rest of this devil’s pie. By the time of the evening rendezvous, little bits of it had been pecked off by my curious colleagues in Hell.
I had texted Santa the location, but Satan himself had texted back to ask if he should bring wine to the South Cove. I suggested beer instead.
There was a gathering of merry players. The alchemy of pastry, fruit and spice cast a sort of enchantment. The sunset on the western waters marked a witching hour.
I believed my mind to be a steel trap. But as I think back, I realize my memory palace is no comparison to Satan’s memory loft, nor Zoe’s memory apartment with offsite storage. Nay, mine was more of a memory room-with-a-bathroom-down-the-hall. So forgive me if the details of this summer’s eve be a bit hazy.
I do remember this:
- Sailboats—unsatisfactory sailboats
- Party boats—less satisfactory
- A speech impediment
- A couple: he wearing his fancy shoes, every hair in place, she slightly under-dressed to be his date and having a bad hair day
- A photographer with a very, very long lens
- Less-than-charitable snickering
- A man with an ass’s head in the background as a couple was kissing for a photographer
- More less-than-charitable snickering
- Two photographer’s assistants appeared with flash stand and reflector
- Clouds that don’t like anything else
- Cat-sitting and other homelessness strategies
- The last slice of the damned pie
- A ring box and kissing
- The invention of wishnet stockings
- The relocation of the ring box and kissing (this time with a reflector and more flash)
- More silliness
- Teenage selfies
- “A photo shoot/surprise marriage proposal” the photographer explained
- Coin tossing
- More silly speech impediments
- Serious coin tossing
To the best of my memory, none of our party left the South Cove affianced. Not Pyramus, not Thisbe, not Tatiana, not Oberon. Not John, not Ela, not Zoe, not Satan. Not even yours truly. And the pie? Certainly not that I remember.