I was carrying a tray of champagne when he stopped me.
“What’s your name?”
“Claire.”
“Claire what?”
“Bennett.”
He nodded toward my shoes.
“How long have you been wearing those?”
I thought he was criticizing them.
“Since five.”
“What time is it now?”
“Almost eleven.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Six hours?”
“Occupational hazard.”
He looked genuinely concerned.
“Your feet must hurt.”
Such a ridiculous thing.
A seventy-three-year-old stranger asking about my feet.
But I almost cried.
Not because my feet hurt.
Because nobody had asked me if I was tired in years.
My mother had needed me.
My employers needed me.
Collectors needed payments.
Clients needed smiles.
My landlord needed rent.
Everyone seemed to want something.
Richard was the first person in a long time who looked at me and noticed that standing up had become difficult.
“Sit down,” he said.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’m working.”
He glanced toward the event coordinator.
