The Weekday One Hundred

Clocked the short brunette from across the bustling ballroom. She’d been avoiding me. “It’s not personal,” I muttered, setting my bourbon aside.

I broke towards her, deftly sidestepping a quartet of martini-swilling socialites. Made a mental note to revisit them later.

I slipped past the cake table, that grey fondant disaster a blur as my black velour loafers slid along the over-polished wood flooring. Classless, I whispered, regaining my balance.

I intercepted her right before she disappeared behind the swinging kitchen doors.

We locked eyes. She offered up her gleaming silver tray.

“Mini crab cake?”

“I really shouldn’t,” I answered.