The Cork

We’re celebrating our engagement.

The music is so loud my butter knife is vibrating like a tuning fork, and the disco lights flash blue, and green, and yellow, in time to the beat.

Everyone’s having a great time, dancing and squealing with delight, but not us – we’re in our own private bubble of conversation.

The mood has changed between us, and it’s over something so silly. I have the cork in my hand, with the champagne bottle in the other, which is half full, while the other half of the contents stains the white linen table cloth and drips over the edge of the table.

“It’s just typical.” She says “Now we won’t have enough for the toast.”

“But that’s the point of champagne, it’s the spectacle - the taste is secondary.”

“I happen to like champagne.” She says.

“I’ll open another one, there’s plenty here.”

“You’re so wasteful – everything you do is so wasteful. ‘I’ll just open another bottle’ – it’s the story of your life.” She says.

I’m holding another bottle in my hand, and this time I know it’s important.

I carefully peel the foil and it flutters silver and gold to the floor.

She watches me. Her lips are pursed.

I loosen the wire cage slowly with slight twists of the tab, and I stop at each twist to check that the cork hasn’t moved.

The room is in slow motion.

I’m breathing hard, and with each breath the dancers are caught in tableau.

The wire cage falls.

Her stare is unforgiving.

The cork doesn’t move.

I put my thumbs under the rim of the cork and push ...

…it moves a millimetre …

…I push some more …

… and it moves again …

I look at her and smile gently.

“It’ll all be OK.” I say.

And I push a little harder …