16 3.4

My dismissive attitude had the intended effect. His face turned a disturbing shade of red, his eyes popped, and metaphorical steam started coming out of his ears. "You don't remember me?"

I looked closely at him, looking to see if perhaps I could find a clue to his identity that I could use. His suit shirt was slightly stained with what looked like red wine, and one of the brass buttons lower down had popped off. It was probably due to the strain provided by a combination of his oversized gut and a poor fit. I imagined he had recently gained weight but was in denial about it. The undershirt that poked out between the gap was stained a disgusting shade of yellow from what I hoped was just sweat, and it was hard to imagine that it had been washed at any time within the last decade.

The only clean thing on him was his mask, completing the look of squalor that his clothing appeared to embrace.

My gaze traveled up to his shoulders, and I saw that he had a dull silver bar on his shoulders and some military whatnot on his chest, meaning he was ranked as the first lieutenant somewhere in the army. I searched my memory for any events that had recently transpired involving military personnel but came up blank. I honestly could not remember who this toad was.

"Have we met?"

My innocent question caused him to turn maroon with his increased anger and he clenched his fists impotently.

"Have we met? HAVE WE MET? You dumped a glass of wine over my head at the winter banquet last year! And ran into me with a piece of cake the year before! You ruined two perfectly good sets of dress uniforms two years in a row, and you just forgot? You good for nothing, spoiled, useless..." He trailed off as his rage robbed the words from his throat, mouth still moving but voice unable to convey his words. The glare he sent at me would have struck me down on the spot if only some divine being allowed him the ability.

But I had remembered him now. Not the cake incident, though I imagine that would have been unintentional. The wine was not. He had been harassing one of my younger sisters, thirteen at the time. We were not close, but as he appeared to be at least thirty, allowing the harassment to continue would be a crime against humanity. My response was quick and decisive; I grabbed a red wine glass that had been abandoned on a table and dramatically threw it in his face, cursing him out in the process.

He had left with his tail between his legs and I had been berated by my father for insulting a guest for whatever cause. I wasn't good with names, but I was pretty sure I remembered his; if I could have seen his ugly face, it would likely have been far quicker of a response on my part.

"Rufus Matten?"