being a weed and living alone...

Another one married, and is just as well. They are lovely together, and you can only see good things happening for them.

The wedding was better than your expectations allowed. You knew there was a reason you were friends. They had rather impeccable taste in just about everything, even in the head waiter.Shame he left before you could summon up the courage to give him your number proper.

Like the weekend past, everything was lovely, and besides little imperfections brought upon by your own inability, or anal-retentiveness, things were, as far as they go, flawless. And from such, you cannot hope but to be painfully aware of your own solitude. How alone can you get surrounded by a sea of people who know you and see you and understand you?

On that rooftop overlooking this tropical nightmare of a city, not an hour ago, they all noticed your melancholy. Even those who had no reason to understand your history. And you, past your prime and tact, had no sense to stay on good taste and deny the all-too-truthful barbs of history.

Tomorrow he returns, bearing gifts. You don't know how you should greet him. He still showers you with the same affection of a generation gone by, but you have a niggling feeling it's more out of habit than any true emotion demonstrated by the habit.

You find that you still love him, though you are both ready, and forcing yourself to be ready, to accept new guests as and when they come around. That, and cheese.