Diamonds

Mama’s clients arrived wearing the kind of clothing that whispers instead of speaks.

Cashmere.
Perfect watches.
Women with controlled voices and expensive hair.
Men pretending not to notice each other’s status while absolutely noticing.

Adult society is honestly just high school with better tailoring. I spent most of the evening floating invisibly around the apartment carrying glasses and observing conversations like a small anthropologist accidentally trapped inside luxury civilization. Jewelry people are fascinating because nobody ever directly says what they mean.

Nobody says:
“I want attention.”
“I want to look richer.”
“I want other women to envy me.”
“I’m terrified of aging.”

Instead they discuss “timeless elegance.”
Sure.

One woman saw a diamond necklace Mom designed and suddenly stood differently. Straighter somehow. Like beauty physically reorganized her spine. That part interested me more than the jewelry itself. Meanwhile one businessman spent twenty minutes casually mentioning Monte Carlo despite nobody asking. Human beings truly cannot resist performing importance. At one point Mom caught me observing everyone too intensely and gave me that look meaning: stop psychologically dissecting the guests.
Impossible request honestly.

After midnight the apartment smelled like perfume, wine, polished wood, and flowers beginning to die slowly in warm rooms.
Luxury always becomes slightly sad at the end of the evening.

Diamonds.
Remember me,
Eclipse