It was a fine white linen tablecloth the size of Sevastopol and I smoothed out the slightest wrinkles one by one, flicking away tiny—almost imperceptible—crumbs
Front-end loaders delivered the silverware, crate after crate, and wave upon wave of thundering Chinooks dropped parcels of pleated, excruciatingly well-starched dinner napkins
An army of kid-gloved waitstaff painstakingly unwrapped a myriad of fragile place-settings and carefully laid them straight, bristling with an anticipation heretofore unknown
A steady scarlet stream of hosed fire engines rumbled past to fill each finely-stemmed water glass around shards of ice chainsawed, ton by ton, from the diminishing glaciers of Greenland
The steamy aroma of luncheon filled the atmosphere enveloping most of the entire Eastern seaboard as the sound of tongs metallically clattered amidst the hiss of the multitudes of grills
All appeared in readiness as I surveyed this near-perfect hall, the size of Barcelona, and murmuring voices of those waiting mingled with sunlight passing through the sheer, breezy drapery
I smiled wryly to myself for today I would be supping with those who have also experienced the loneliness I often feel inside