I smiled, lifted my glass, and deliberately tilted it, letting the wine spill across the white tablecloth and onto Margaret’s lap. The room fell silent, and the only sound was the quiet gasp from the table next to us and the clinking of the glass as I set it back down. I looked directly into Margaret’s eyes, the shock on her face mirrored by Mark’s.
“Oops,” I said with a calmness I didn’t quite expect. “I guess red really is a better color on you, Margaret. After all, it hides stains just as well as it hides wrinkles.”
For a moment, the air was thick with disbelief. Margaret’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, her polished demeanor cracking at the edges. Mark’s eyes darted between his mother and me, searching for words, but finding nothing. They were silenced, left without their usual arsenal of cutting remarks and patronizing laughs.
