The trickle of smoke curled above his head, drifting from the lit fag between his fingers. He'd looked so suave and put together when I first saw him that evening. But now he was pitiful. His coat gone, his sleeves rolled up, his hair a ruffled mess. Yes, it was the cloths that made his appearance so disheveled. The tear tracks racing down his cheeks had little to do with it. He sniffed, and wiped his face against his arm, trying, and failing, to somewhat compose himself. I stayed silent, reclined in the chair, conveying the message that I was ready to sit there all night. I wasn't going to rush him back into joining the party. While hiding in the powder room wasn't my plan for the evening, he took priority. As always. I kept my eyes on the floor, unfocused and directed away from his tears. My presence and my respect; that's all I could give him as comfort. I wouldn't tap my foot. I wouldn't give him cooed words of reassurance. I wouldn't touch him. But I would be there.
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Tiny Stories And Concepts
Short StoryToo small to stand alone, too much potential to hide. Completely random. I just gotta put all these drafts somewhere. Under 400 words each.
