Ezra's mouth felt too dry. He worried it would sound hoarse when he tried to speak, but he managed a reply in spite of it: "Well, plenty of that out here."
What a stupid thing to say. He loathed himself, sometimes. What were they doing, coexisting at parties and exchanging pointless small-talk banter? What came next, a question about whether she was enjoying the evening? A superficial discussion of the hostess' design choices for the event? As though either of them cared. Well, he supposed he couldn't really speak for her — he didn't care about any of those things. He had a hard time believing that she did, either. But she had approached him, so presumably she wanted something, and it probably wasn't just the benefit of his engaging company. He wasn't very good company, these days.
Not that she would know that, he supposed. This was the first time that it had occurred to him to wonder how much Rosalie knew about how he'd been, in the ten months since she'd left him. Probably no one in his family would have volunteered the information that he had been going off the rails without her, but it wouldn't have taken much digging on her part to uncover it, if she'd been interested. His coworkers couldn't talk about work, but they could have talked about him; they'd all certainly noticed his decline. She knew who his friends were, and some of them might have shared some news with her if she'd framed the questions as concern. So if she had wanted to keep track of him, she could have... but if she hadn't expended any effort in that department she may have been entirely unaware of what he'd been going through. The realization was jarring enough that his discomfort showed on his face, and he took a drink to try and cover it. If he had died a few months ago — as he had seemed perfectly on track to do — he wondered if she would have been invited to the funeral, and if she would have accepted the invitation if she had.
These were the kinds of things on his mind as he looked at her, and the latest words in the air between them were plenty of air out here.
Ezra looked mournfully towards his glass, only a quarter full and fated to be empty much too quickly. He drank too quickly when he was anxious.
I'm sorry for whatever it was I said that upset you, he thought, wishing there was a way to communicate the sentiment without words. It wasn't worth trying to say it out loud; the last time he'd tried to talk about it had gone disastrously for them, and he had no reason to suspect a second attempt would go any better. And they were in public now; it would make quite a scene if she slapped him again. So what he said instead was: "I hope Mr. Delaney is a good dancer."
What a stupid thing to say. He loathed himself, sometimes. What were they doing, coexisting at parties and exchanging pointless small-talk banter? What came next, a question about whether she was enjoying the evening? A superficial discussion of the hostess' design choices for the event? As though either of them cared. Well, he supposed he couldn't really speak for her — he didn't care about any of those things. He had a hard time believing that she did, either. But she had approached him, so presumably she wanted something, and it probably wasn't just the benefit of his engaging company. He wasn't very good company, these days.
Not that she would know that, he supposed. This was the first time that it had occurred to him to wonder how much Rosalie knew about how he'd been, in the ten months since she'd left him. Probably no one in his family would have volunteered the information that he had been going off the rails without her, but it wouldn't have taken much digging on her part to uncover it, if she'd been interested. His coworkers couldn't talk about work, but they could have talked about him; they'd all certainly noticed his decline. She knew who his friends were, and some of them might have shared some news with her if she'd framed the questions as concern. So if she had wanted to keep track of him, she could have... but if she hadn't expended any effort in that department she may have been entirely unaware of what he'd been going through. The realization was jarring enough that his discomfort showed on his face, and he took a drink to try and cover it. If he had died a few months ago — as he had seemed perfectly on track to do — he wondered if she would have been invited to the funeral, and if she would have accepted the invitation if she had.
These were the kinds of things on his mind as he looked at her, and the latest words in the air between them were plenty of air out here.
Ezra looked mournfully towards his glass, only a quarter full and fated to be empty much too quickly. He drank too quickly when he was anxious.
I'm sorry for whatever it was I said that upset you, he thought, wishing there was a way to communicate the sentiment without words. It wasn't worth trying to say it out loud; the last time he'd tried to talk about it had gone disastrously for them, and he had no reason to suspect a second attempt would go any better. And they were in public now; it would make quite a scene if she slapped him again. So what he said instead was: "I hope Mr. Delaney is a good dancer."
![[Image: 5WWaDR1.png]](https://i.imgur.com/5WWaDR1.png)