Eric tried to tell his parents; they didn’t listen.
So party games remained unplayed, prizes unpresented, trampoline untrampled. Dainty triangular sandwiches curled at the edges, as cream curdled on the jellies.
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.
His father practically blew a fuse.
“You’re a social disconnect, son. You gotta network in this life.”
Eric’s something big at General Electric now.
Rich…? Bet your life on it.
Hard-wired for loneliness though.
Some things don’t change.
A re-hashed re-run from four and a half years ago, as I succumb to the flu-ey cold that my husband has finally shared with me after ten days. I really thought I might make it through unscathed. Thanks to Rochelle, the leader of Friday Fictioneers who turns up week after week to host our get-together.