temples, and he wore a suit that probably cost more than my car.
He took one glass, paused, and asked for my name.
When I answered, he didn’t look past me the way men usually looked past servers.
Instead, he asked, “Do your feet hurt?”
I almost dropped the tray.
Then he caught the catering captain’s attention from across the ballroom and quietly angled a chair behind a column, where I could sit without anyone seeing.
We spoke about nothing important: his late wife’s garden, the book I was reading
