The Sinister Hue.

Memories of art auctions, afternoon high teas, quiz nights and mahjong games all took on a sinister hue.
Motoko Rich. NYT. 

We were all at high tea when the conversation took
a strange turn.
"Why are we having high tea in the first place?" asked Hildegard, my oldest and dearest mung bean dealer. 
"Sitting here in starched dresses and sipping weak tea with little cupcakes on the side and a butler standing silently in the shadows. Sinister, is what I call it."
We all looked at the silent butler
lurking in the shadows while sharpening a machete
with a whetstone. 
"It's a way to spend the afternoon without leaving a carbon footprint" replied Rachel primly. I never liked Rachel; she liked to brag about how many scrunchies she gave to homeless women. 
I put down my bone china tea cup.
Got up and walked out of the gathering.
It was not sinister, I decided.
But it was a tad boring.

That evening at the art auction I bought a Poisson print: 'Animalcules.'
As I took it out to the car
 it began to shed tiny yellow pollen-like particles.
And people all around me got the hiccups. 
I don't know if any of them ever recovered. 

The next day my mahjong group decided to become 
nondenominational.
We gave all our hand-carved ivory tiles 
to a community college to fund classes
in bonsai.
I felt good about our decision, 
but I noticed several 
of the members kept
some of the most valuable
tiles for themselves --
while snickering in a sinister fashion.

We never did have our quiz night
because of cloud cover
and the war in Marzipan.

But I refuse to give in to
Sinisterism.
Life is more than dim hues.
Dark umbras that tepid talents
feel the need to analyze
ad nauseum.
Oh, and that butler with the machete?
He turned out 
to be a sheep
shearer.