Writing

I've begun something of which I have a very good feeling about.

The patio was cold beneath her. She watched vacantly as a leaf blew across the gravel drive. It was momentarily caught on a fallen branch before being snatched away in an updraft. From there it was lost in the gray sky.
The lawn was trampled, still littered with champagne glasses, some shattered, stained plates, and gold streamers. Cigarette butts too, she thought. The tents, tables, and chairs had long since been packed and taken away, but everyone was far too exhausted to bother with the trash. She imagined that it would linger for a day or two before one of the gardener's feet were swelled down enough to pick it up. How typical.
It had been a magnificent party, from what she could recall. It had taken months to plan, only to end in one night. There had been lights in the trees, an orchestra playing on stage. Swarms of people she had never met circulated, dancing and talking and laughing. She had wandered by herself for some time, first sipping champagne, then gulping. The rest was a beautiful, sickly blur; the last of the summer breeze drifting lazily through the crowds of wealthy friends and strangers.
She put her fingers to her temples and let out a sigh. She had recently woken on a desk in the library, sprawled barbarically. Her party gown was a disheveled mess. There was puke in her bent, crooked, brown curls.
Delia forced herself to stand, only to lean against a railing. She swore underneath her breath.
“Alright, Delia?”
The young woman jumped. She turned to see her mother-in-law's wrinkled old face peering down at her from a few steps above.
“Of course, Mrs. Sinclair! I was merely catching my breath. What a party,” she exclaimed, feigning exuberance. “Goodness me, I haven't had a sparing moment to bathe and change into something fresh. Do excuse me.” Her tone had altered into one of business and Delia Sinclair brushed past Alta, her husband's mother.
She had never found Alta in any way amiable, and she had long since given up on being anything but a formidable acquaintance to the old bat. As Delia struggled to keep composure on her way to her rooms, she recalled the moment she had met William.