Famili(arity)

She didn't speak to him. The silence wasn't awkward. No. More hopeless she thought - on his part. And resetful; contemptuous, on her's. For his miserable silence. For his glances: long and lost. Needy. Hounding. Waiting all the while for her to talk to him. But their exchange - never more than a comment on the weather or a bland observation. And as they sat and listened to the music each glance of his that met with hers was vacant, hollow, surrounded by the features of a forced smile. Each glance ruined her mood. Made her uncomfortable and longing for the conversation or the perfect silence had anyone else been sat in the chair opposite.

As the evening marched into its late hours she wondered, and struggled to recall if indeed they had ever had anything to say to one-another - A conversation that was neither forced nor practical.