15

He had a clean style, monochrome, which proclaimed middling achievement. His reactions were predictable given the nature of the exchange. It was a lagging, swivelling discussion; we were both checking if anyone familiar would come our way. It was a humid Wednesday evening; we were guests at the fourth-floor party. A party with halogen and sunset lighting. It was a Sunday morning; I had been there for some time. He came in, by himself. He came over and said hello. Some people, I thought, are always alone. I finished my meal; with particular earnestness he lifted his hand in goodbye. Weeks later, I was driving past, he was standing in a doorway greeting family, or greeting friends. Perhaps his smile was a bit long in the tooth, but with each hug he impressed himself on them with appealing care.