Bernard and the Beverage Ballet

Bernard T. Blithersby, a man whose grace was rivaled only by a startled rhino attempting origami, found himself in a familiar predicament. He was, yet again, transporting delicate items through a crowded room. This time, it was a tray of artisanal cheeses, a bowl of olives (the expensive kind that roll), and three flutes of sparkling elderflower wine at his aunt Mildred's annual 'Tasteful Taster' soirée. His mission: deliver them from the kitchen counter to the patio table, a distance of approximately ten feet and seven small children.

He took a deep breath, like a bomb disposal expert defusing a particularly wobbly bomb. Each step was a precarious ballet of misjudgment. First, his elbow, an independent entity with a mind of its own, connected with a decorative ficus, causing a cascade of startled leaves. The elderflower wine sloshed ominously. Next, a rogue shoelace (a constant saboteur) tried to trip him. He compensated with a dramatic lurch, narrowly avoiding a collision with a statue of a cherubic angel, but sending an olive into a parabolic arc straight towards Aunt Mildred’s perfectly coiffed bun.

The olive landed with a soft plop. Aunt Mildred, mid-anecdote about her prize-winning petunias, paused, her eyes slowly tracking the oily green sphere as it rolled down her immaculate hair. Bernard, frozen in terror, offered a silent, contorted apology with his face. Just then, a child, having successfully dodged his initial clumsy advance, decided to change direction directly into Bernard's path.

It wasn't a crash so much as a slow-motion unraveling. Bernard, the tray, the child, the remaining olives, and two flutes (the third, miraculously, was caught by a passing waiter, who looked like he'd seen it all before) all converged in a heap. The artisanal cheeses scattered like bewildered dairy soldiers. Bernard, now lying amidst a mosaic of camembert and crackers, looked up at Aunt Mildred. "At least," he offered weakly, "the child broke my fall."