I turned around.
An older man in a dark suit was standing beside me.
I immediately straightened.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
He frowned.
“I didn’t ask you to apologize.”
I looked at him carefully.
He had silver hair, tired eyes, and the kind of expensive watch I knew I could never afford.
“I’m fine,” I said.
He glanced down at my shoes.
“No, you’re not.”
I smiled politely.
“I’m working.”
“I can see that.”
He looked toward the ballroom.
Then back at me.
“How long have you been standing?”
I hesitated.
“Most of the evening.”
“Your feet must hurt.”
It was such a simple question.
But no man had asked whether I was tired in years.
I don’t know why that stayed with me.
Maybe because I had become so used to people needing something from me that I had forgotten what it felt like for someone to simply notice that I was exhausted.
