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Ron Fleming felt relieved as he finally began to free himself from the clutches of the artificial redhead who chattered mindlessly at him in a secluded corner of the smoky, half-lit room. He sensed the girl making one last attempt to catch his attention, as she punctuated a particularly inane remark by leaning her empty head up against his shoulder in a tipsy parody of suggestiveness, smiling up at him with a naivete as transparent as the watery drink she was holding in her hand. Ron pivoted expertly, caught her free arm in his, and maneuvered her effortlessly to a small sofa, where he’d spotted a small, quiet, mousy man sitting silently alone with a glass of untasted ginger ale clasped tightly in both hands. Ron hurried through an informal introduction, not knowing either of their names, and then turned back to the party leaving them already engrossed in a vigorous smiling, one-sided conversation.
Moving his tall, handsomely built body through the strident jumble of cocktail conversation, Ron made his way once more to the bar, stopping along the way to pick up another odorless, tasteless cheese thing from a tray filled with unimaginative snacks. He was famished. There was nothing worse than coming to a party expecting dinner, only to find that there was none.
He spotted his wife, Sharon, through the maze of lighted cigarettes and clinking glasses, standing across the room in conversation with a short, balding man. Ron could see her forcing her smiles, and nodding her head in response to his undoubtedly boring conversation, and he smiled to himself as he wondered just what purpose this kind of party had, except to allow a group of dull people to infect their friends with the emptiness of their own lives.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.