by Sarah K Grundy

A union in its purest form becomes part of our very essence. When that union is broken our essence is changed forever.

"Isn't it something people often do just because that's what everyone else is doing?"

Morgan said while enjoying her vino fresh from the vine, with a moan that belonged to a lover. The aroma of Liam washed over her. She shivered and shrugged it off.

"...something we do to trick ourselves into believing we are in control somehow. As if things aren't always changing."

Morgan ignored the blank stares coming from around the table and spoke bluntly to clear the pretentious stench beginning to haunt the air.

She didn't get this far by caring what others thought of her.

Her eyes closed, seduced by the taste on her tongue and the breeze drenching her skin. The bliss was quickly interrupted by a swift kick under the table. Morgan smirked with wide eyes at her friend Angeline's bold interruption.

"Morgan tell Marcello about your work. I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear what brought you to Capri." Morgan's friend Angeline said with an agitated tone.

She feared she may have lost another suitor for her dear friend, who entranced with her beauty but unleashed daggers from her lips.

Angeline knew any man could fall madly in love with Morgan if she could just stop talking. Morgan would never allow it. She built barriers that could rival that of Fort Knox.

She managed to avoid the discussion, with a few sweet words, a flutter of her eyes, a dash of induction, and a refill of her guest’s glasses.

With a subtle dance, she slipped away into the refuge of the kitchen.

Food is a place where all of nature convenes.

Grow it, nurture it, caress it, taste it, touch it and it's sure to infiltrate and merge nations, or souls without a thought, a question, or any hesitation.

"Let me help lovey," Angeline said softly as she followed close behind.

"Tell me what I can do. This platter needs fresh herbs and a bit more sprinkling of oil..."

Angeline asked for instruction, but never took it. She was a dear friend to Morgan for as long as time.

"He's a little dry Angie. I think you're losing your touch." Morgan said with a smile.

"We all just want to see you happy, doll. You deserve it after everything..." Angie paused uncomfortably with the thought of death.

Grace is at the core of tragedy. Once in the free fall of disgrace, the only way to change the momentum is to use it to your advantage.

"Happiness is about a lot of things, Angie. Independence, freedom, power, money, confidence, timing. Like a merger. The energy can be there, but nothing else fits, and boom, collapse. The deal is broken. Each person has to be at a place where they are happy within themselves. You know?"

Morgan said as she drifted away into a conversation with herself again.

"Does it have to be so complicated? Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy. A pretty dress, a great ring. Magic. They live happily ever after."

Angeline said with all the seriousness in the world. She really meant it. She had found that.

Morgan used a tone of voice that would not break her friend’s childlike joy.

"To me, marriage looks like religion. Those who covet it are antsy until everyone else does too. Like somehow that confirms they are doing the right thing, as long as the rest of society adheres to this way of living with them. It lessens the sacrifice when everyone joins the herd no matter if they agree, or not. When everyone follows, it takes away the fear that the one who is free may try to covet theirs."

Images of nervous wives clutching onto their husband’s forearms with their sweaty palms made Morgan giggle. What a strange thought, to believe that another person’s husband would seem enticing. All of that baggage is not sexy.

Married men were simpler friends to have. There was no mystery regarding what would take place next. No expectations. Just friendship. Any affections were brotherly.

Morgan missed her brothers.

"Don't overthink it, gorgeous. It's just human nature. A part of life. I think in time you will change your mind. You know what I mean, Morgan. You can't just stay alone in this big spooky house forever. Give Marcelo a chance. You might like him. He has a wonderful family and his future couldn't be brighter. Do you feel any sparks at all?" Angie inquired. "Why don't you let me choose for you? I have great taste."

"Oh Angie, that is so, Fidler on the Roof!" There's nothing spooky about the house and I'm not alone. Marcelo…ugh…you lost me at wonderful, Mr.Wonderful, oh how that just makes me twitch, Angie. Sparks don't come that easy." Morgan said.

"Not for you dear. A simple blow in my ear, a whistle when I walk and I'm all yours. Sparks are flying in every direction and I can't stop them. Put a ring on my finger and I'll love you forever." Angie said with a deeply-southern twang washed over by all things Parisian that made your heart melt like a June bug, on a daisy on the fourth of July.

She observed her friend twirling her wedding ring around, and around on her finger nervously as she smiled at its grandeur and thought about how easily Angie loved George.

Morgan always admired Angeline's way of life. The mutual adoration she and George shared was unique, strong, and fulfilled. Not like those nervous, sweaty-palmed wives who thought women like Morgan would ever settle for crumbs.

George and Morgan could be close friends, and Angie never flinched an inch. She was secure in their bond. It was whole. They seemed to complete each other while standing firmly in their own space.

It was miles away from anything she had in her life. Despite Morgan's chatter, Angeline knew she respected her marriage. Yet, as a reminder, "If all marriages looked like yours, my dear, well now that would be different wouldn't it, Angeline. The word "marriage" would take on an entirely different glow and my ideas of evolution would be far off in the distance."

They finished dancing around the food and Morgan whispered on their way out to the table, "I'll make nice with Marcelo and smooth it over. Anything else would just be un-southern." Angeline said with a smile.

They brought the food to the table with the help of a few kitchen staffers that came with the house. They seemed to have lived there for hundreds of years, or maybe more. The spread had been freshly picked, or squeezed from the surrounding estate.

It smelled and tasted as though the sun had joined them for dinner, melting them on contact. The ingredients were selected specifically to bring those who ate them to Morgan's persuasion.

The ghee, Gota Kola, and sprigs of native Italy were dancing through her guest’s insides, much to their surprise. This was a gift she learned in Lalibela, a place where food is an intoxication, a dance of enticement. For a time, while they ate, there was a harmony, smiles which played even without the cellist.

It hurt to look at her. The pain oozed from her like blood from a war wound. She couldn't prevent her own death, but she remained with the living. It's too dark for her to see. The light burns her skin so she hides. Pieces shattered around her like remains 

Would Morgan face the same fate?

"Remember destiny has two ways of crushing us by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them." said the great, Henri Amiel.

A person’s true destiny can only be revealed at the end of their journey. And the story I have to tell is far from over.

Sources: VOGUE, A unique view on love