An Insignificant Incident, that Warrants no Mention. And Yet.

He had stared at the dance floor; for uttering a confounded apology while staring into the eye is a task for the braver to undertake.

He had eventually come around to saying the words, and he had meant them. And I had heard them. "I am sorry" - heard each syllable pronounced coherently, even over the loud pulsating music, along with the other fumbled phrases about the past and things as they used to be; my gaze still affixed unto the blazing red paint on my finger-nails, that rested delicately upon the folds of my satin dress.

And we had looked at each other briefly. And he had tried to study the blankness of my visage to decipher my predicament. Would I forgive him, or would I not care? And in my head, I had wondered: did I remember?

For a split-second, I was reminded of the hurt as it had existed: a memory of a feeling as opposed to the feeling itself. A feeling that had been agonizing and impassioned. A feeling...that had been, but no longer was.

I remembered it, as I would remember an old movie, watched once upon a time: its plot vague and amorphous.

And maybe for a moment I had smiled lightly. Or was that a smirk? My mind had earnestly tried to contemplate a response.

But our moment was lost.

And I had let his apology linger there, among the din of the exulting crowd and the numerous pairs of feet swinging to a popular bollywood number, in ironical silence.

And we had returned our gaze to the cavorting lights on the dance floor.