My dress, judged by whispers escaping hastily erected social defences. Their scowls like trip wires as I seek a calm port.
I’d rather be in glorious Thailand, than Backwatersville, suburbia.
Finally, I locate my old crowd - aged versions of familiar faces. The mutually unpopular. We hid in quiet corners with salty fries and history essays. I different life ago now.
Will they close the bunker doors?
But hands beckon, smiles welcome. Bile settles. The years melt away as I glide towards them.
“You’ve changed David,” they say. “Love the heels.”