A Reverie. Dinner with Sting and Cillian.
I was sitting quietly, perfectly happy with my own company, when an improbable notion wandered into my head, and I did nothing to discourage it. And that is how I came up with inviting Sting and Cillian to dinner. In my imagination the arrangements were effortless. I was wearing something quietly spectacular, discovered in a closet that has never, in real life, contained anything remotely like it. Sting arrived first, carrying an extravagant bouquet of flowers (this man obviously knew his way around a florist). Cillian appeared moments later with a mouth-watering bottle of wine, an exceptional one, of course. And there we were. Sting. Cillian. Me.
I imagined myself witty, charming, perfectly at ease, but I kept wondering if I had remembered the olives. Why olives? I have no idea. I didn’t ask Sting to sing, I didn’t ask Cillian about his next film. We settled in beautifully, conversation flowed, I was witty, charming, perfectly at ease. We talked about books, children, the peculiarities of fame, the pleasures of privacy. And nobody checked their phone. Cillian had a deliciously dry sense of humor. Sting was strikingly engaging. And I contributed some brilliant and original observations that I wish I could remember.
RING RING
The doorbell? I was annoyed. Super annoyed. For one brief moment I wondered who on earth would interrupt us. And then I remembered I had been dreaming. No Sting. No Cillian. No flowers. No wine. Not even my undiscovered talent for effortless entertaining.
Now, had the evening actually taken place, I’d probably have been hopelessly tongue-tied, spilled the wine, and spent half the evening worrying about the olives. As it was, everything had gone perfectly. And I didn’t have to wash a single dish.
