Those girls, people said,
think they can do anything and get away with it.

(Save me the last waltz, Zelda Fitzgerald)

The room is filled with smoke, with soft music in the background, pearls trembling on evening dresses. The contours are indistinct, like certain memories. The music persists, but politely, almost indifferent.

Laughter, the sound of heels, of glasses, and of indistinct voices. Hints of figures, outlines of people.

One stops beside a mirror, but does not look at herself. Instead, she adjusts a necklace. She is distracted, her thoughts running to the present day, to that nothing that has somehow fallen into place. Someone laughs, embraces the one who could be a sister or simply a friend, and the other lets herself be overcome, unable to withdraw from that embrace.

Another crosses the room without looking at anyone. She does not allow herself to be distracted, but continues within her thoughts, not following the rhythm.

There is one who dances, turning around the room. Her head spins, whirling, yet she cannot stop. And in that vortex, a pearl earring falls, but no one feels the urgency to pick it up. Rather, there is relief, as if the loss lightens the body from a posture held for too long.

Leaning at the center of the room, she feels herself to be the most beautiful. She is self-assured, with bold, defined smoky eyes; the pearlescent reflection of her dress radiates through the room. Another still plays with a ring, repeating the same gesture. It reveals an inner fragility that had not been anticipated.

And then there is another who observes all this, as if it had already happened. She is a quiet, distant presence.

The music continues, but no one follows it.