There is nothing—nothing—I hate more than this.
I’m his plus one, and he’s deep in conversation with another writer from another publication.
In heels, I’m taller than him, and yet, he walks into the room and because of his stupid job, that (okay, I admit it) I am completely jealous of, people approach him and l0ck him into the type of indulgent, self-satisfying conversation that I can so easily identify because I am, ironically, a publicist, and can spot the body language, the compliments and the fawning.
So I sit here, totally abandoned beside him, watching quietly.
I hate this.