The Man at the Dinner Table

He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He... well, he doesn't even know my name.

And I don't know his, either...

It was that man I saw across the ballroom that evening. Just last evening, I saw him sitting at the dinner table, apperently bored out of his mind as the woman next to him chatted into his ear, oblivious to her listener's utter boredom. His brown eyes, like liquid chocolate, even in their disinterested state seemed so deep. I caught glimpses of him as I waltzed around the floor with my partner, Sir Elliot Keys. He wasn't a terrible dancing partner, quite fleet-footed as a matter of fact, but his horribly grand and aloof manner made everything extremely awkward. I remember that I gazed longingly in the direction of the dinner table, wanting nothing more than for this dance to be over with.

As the evening passed, I searched for the man I had seen sitting at the table. But his black clothes provided perfect camoflouge in the sea of black vests, suits, and tuxedos. Never again that evening did I see those brown eyes, or the thick brown hair that crowned his flawless face.

Now, as I stand here at the confectionary on Villablanca Sqaure, running a daisy through my fingers and recalling an image of the man at the table, I look up and see him standing in the street like an angel, looking in my direction.

The End

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