I Can’t Be Sure
by William C. Blome
I can’t be sure, but I think I saw electricity flash in the greenwood this morning, in woods sort of in between buildings that, seen from a proper distance, are dead ringers for two humongous cans of satin indoor paint (which I, as an experienced housepainter, doubt could ever be opened), but the flashing took me back to the time when I was a spur-of-the-moment guest of Haitian aristocrats and their families in the Hunters Dining Room at the old Ambassador Hotel. A more formal event I had never attended; that is, until lightning streaked the dining room walls, and the storm knocked out the Hunters’ chandeliers. Following that, unspeakable things occurred for better than a half an hour in the random-firing darkness. And though, post-storm, the cellists did return to their instruments; nonstop canapés were eagerly consumed once more; and the overhead bulbs blazed away without interruption this time, nonetheless, we all had trouble finding our own clothes and regaining formal composure, ‘trouble with deciding just how freely we might keep using the dinner linen to dry our sweaty selves. But I find it understandable that I’ve grown fuzzy about many details and that I’m unable to even hazard a guess as to when the regaining-composure piece was actually achieved.
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William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Poetry London, PRISM International, Fleas on the Dog, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, and The California Quarterly.