Bread, Wine, Salt

Perfume Joy smells like lying in the dark in my bedroom, pretending to be asleep  when my mother came in to check on me after coming home from a glamorous grown-up party, the kind I never go to,  because no one is glamorous anymore. Joy smells like the sound of her charm bracelet jingling  as she took off her fur coat,  and the rustle of garment bags as she put it away in the spare closet. Sometimes the parties were at our house.  My parents would hire a man to tend bar,  and his wife to manage the kitchen for the evening  so they could mingle.  My sister and I put on our best party dresses and carried trays of hors d'oeuvres  through the sea of people, offering up ham biscuits and shrimp puffs  and showing off our best manners.  We were never relegated to watching the party from the top of the stairs.  My mother knew there was no chance we would sleep  and she might as well get fre...