Dig

She had escorted a glass of wine away from the party, sitting alone at the edge of the lake. She stared out at the water, engrossed in a silent archaeological dig - picking at the bones of her life, freeing a couple of key memories from the silt and sediment. She had been mad for someone once. It was magical, impetuous, impractical, but an epic love story nonetheless. And she wondered if you got more than one of those in a lifetime - if it was ridiculously greedy and self-absorbed to want it (even if it made you anxious and stupid and unhinged in that Romantic Way, something no one in their right mind would desire to be). It was dangerous to wander through your own ruins, because you always found longing ... hiding in the corners, embedded in the marble tiles, ringing from the bloody bell tower. She raised her glass and toasted them - the madness inducer, wished them a happy birthday, and readied to stand. It occurred to her, however, that if she rose to find that some Lake Lady had thrown a sword up in her general direction, she'd grab it in a heartbeat, use it to cut ties, and go. Somewhere. Anywhere. She waited a bit, giving the imaginary Lady a bit of extra time (no one was getting any younger) and then, swordless, she sighed and turned away.