The stories of Bryan Young

The first time I saw her we were at a quiet party in the city hosted by a mutual acquaintance. Parties were never my forte, not loud parties with music played loud enough to cause bleeding ears, anyway. This one wasn’t like that. This party was much more subdued, Henry Mancini spun quietly on a record player in the back room, red wine was served and everyone chatted quietly. These pseudo-sophisticated get-togethers weren’t my favorite thing in the world to attend, but it wasn’t so bad as some social functions I’d been forced to. The only person at the party I even half knew was the host and he was busy tending the rest of his guests. My plan was to arrive, have a few drinks, thank my host and leave, participating in any conversation that was offered my way in the meantime, but, by no means, initiating one myself. It was a good plan. It would have worked, too, had fate not crossed Sarah into my path. Like clockwork, I arrived thirty minutes late, dressed casually in khaki slacks