Bill glanced at his watch. Still no Joshua. Had he done something wrong? It wasn’t like Joshua to be late. He was a stickler for being on time. ‘It shows respect for one’s host,’ he’d pronounce. ‘A demonstration that there is no other place you would rather be.’ Bill on the other hand was often late.
His mind wandered, only half listening to the conversation, watching the swirls of smoke he blew into the air after drawing on his cigarette. It was rude to ignore his guests, but he felt sure few would notice.
He looked around the room at the motley crew he called his friends – a turnout of locals, mostly artists and old friends, greedy for reassurance, if only from their hangers on; topers up for free wine and free-flowing conversation, buttonholing others with their sour breath and hyperbole about all things art.
It was his turn to host the regular get-together. An opportunity to complain about difficult sitters, compare commissions, boast small wins and even smaller sales, reassuring each other that their threadbare existence had occasional, if sparing, rewards…
Leave a Reply