I should have listened; he’d tried to tell me, his little face pale and tense.
Games were left unplayed, prizes unpresented, trampoline untrampled; pretty triangular sandwiches curled at the edges as cream curdled on the jellies.
The cake was left untouched; the solitary guest, a little girl way off the social circuit herself, sang ‘Happy Birthday’ in a reedy voice, then blew out his candle before announcing she didn’t like cake.
“You don’t network, Eric,” shouted his father afterwards. “Try harder.”
Eric’s something big at General Electric now.
Rich…? Bet your life on it.
Hard-wired for loneliness though.
Freshly back from a walk along the sea-shore, it’s now time to buckle down to Friday Fictioneers. Rochelle, belted and braced, takes the chair once again to preside over our international gathering of wordsmiths.