"My curse is verbosity," he explained, taking a quick pull on his cigarette in lieu of any real pause. "Once I start expounding on a subject I find myself quite incapable of either stopping or restricting my vocabulary in abject pursuit of being more easily understood. I'm quite desperate at this point; I'm as unhappily removed from the art of conversation as any mute and that look of glazed incomprehension you're slowly developing is more isolating than even the rankest sympathy would be."
This time he took a much longer drag, filling the deep parts of his lungs with smoke and exhaling as slowly as he could manage. I put my hand over his (struck a wall in frustration not an hour ago) and stroked his long fingers.
"You don't have to say anything," I said. "I like you. I like your voice. You can start talking about anything you want, if you want, and I'll listen just because I like your voice. But you don't have to say anything at all."
We stood for a long time, until the winter air bit me back inside the party. He stayed on the balcony, silent and smoking, suit jacket flapping in the wind.
I don't know what happened to him after that.
