Beauty and the Beast

You open the doors and the shadows projected by the dimmed lights dance at your feet. The waiting staff is busy with the last details; the chefs are bustling in the kitchen among their bubbling pots and sizzling pans. You walk from table to table, the polished glasses reflect the orange glow from the candles, the cutlery is perfectly aligned by the plates.
When you pick one with your gloved fingers and inspect it, the curve of the spoon gives back the reflection of your distorted face. You walk to the French windows and open the curtains. The lights of the night dance on the polished wooden floorboards.
Someone coughs behind you, the waiters are queueing up at the door, each holding a bottle of champagne.
Your lips bent in an involuntary smile. “It’s time.”
The corks fly and the glasses are raised to the sky.