Prompts courtesy of Jeffrey Hollar‘s Monday Mixer.
Esther Galloway hosted this party every summer at their summer house on the eastern shore of the Bruce Peninsula. Turkey-necked dilettantes and their heavy-walleted husbands flocked here like shore birds, to throw their barely earned money at art in the vain hope that it might allow them to seem more cultured and refined.
Esther had just finished giving a tour of their latest acquisitions. Her husband, as drunk as a lake is wet, stood in the middle of crowd.
“The curator has returned,” he slurred, raising his glass.
“Alan,” she chirped. “Please, control yourself.”
“Tell these preened pigeons, Esther,” he said, finishing his bourbon. “Tell them how many times you have made me a cuckold with these paint-flecked roosters of yours.”
Esther flashed an abashed smile at the crowd, who pretended not to find the scene enthralling.
“You’ll get nothing in the divorce,” he said, sagging to the ground. “Nothing.”