If he saw me at all, it was only through an up-turned wine- glass.
In truth, I was just a listening head. And even then, his eyes would drift, scanning for a wider audience.
He probably told himself my silence was an excuse to resume circulating, when in reality it was a reason to stay. Because listening isn’t the same as waiting for your turn to talk, and that’s why he kept gravitating back to me. Because I listened.
By midnight I knew everything about him, while he scarcely remembered my name.
Until it appeared on the by-line.
Our long hot spell finally broke yesterday with a very welcome thunderstorm. It’s still warm, still dry despite a short sharp shower, but more comfortable, mercifully. Thanks to Rochelle for her leadership of Friday Fictioneers. Join us if the spirit moves you!”