Honour

My friend leaves the party. Walking over to say ‘goodbye’, she cups my face in her hand, tenderly kisses each cheek – as is her custom, and looking deep into my eyes, tells me she is there for me, and to let her know if there is anything she can do to ameliorate my suffering. I feel blessed by her Gallic grace. I bask in the cool reassurance of her blue eyes. And I know that she means it; as once I was there for her, she will not demur returning the favour.