A Flickering Light

Here’s a blogger who’s a good story teller.  So, good, I wonder if it’s fiction… for example,

I scanned the crowd, and eventually picked out amongst the hats and condescending noses the one person there, other than the bride herself, that I actually knew. We had worked together a few years ago at a French bank in Geneva, and more recently I had tried to help him get a job with another very exclusive company. He wasn’t a De This or even a De The Other, but he was a Double-Barrel, and he was clearly in his element here, clutching a bottle of Dom Perignon and flirting with a rat-faced girl in an unfeasibly short dress, while a gangling young sidekick smiled in gormless admiration at him.

"Salut Thibaut," I said, cheerily reaching out to shake his hand. "Enfin quelqu’un que je connais." The hesitation before he reached his hand out to me would have been barely perceptible to an innocent observer. But to his two companions, and above all to me, the recipient of his limp, unenthusiastic handshake, the message was very clear. The sudden blankness of his expression was equally heavy with meaning.