It was the sunset which did Fred in. He often overstayed, it was his unfortunate bad habit to be the last man still present long after all other guest had politely departed. He had mistakenly thought he was so witty and clever hosts wanted him to themselves, thus never requested his departure, when it actuality Fred was just too dense to pickup on their subtle shooing.
This time it was not like that. For Fred had been clued in by a friend of courage just that morning, about not borrowing trouble. To start being the first to depart, that is if he wanted to quench the rumbles of weariness his lingering was generating; if he still wanted to continue to be one of the lucky privileged ones with access to the soirees of the rich and famous.
So that twilight when Fred wandered out onto the kitchen porch of his latest social obligation in search of some solitude, he set to pondering whether he did want to be invited and tortured with artificial friendliness for evermore. He gleefully came to the conclusion that he didn’t really like parties much, that it was his estranged wife who did, not himself. With this happy release of expectation, Fred found himself waiting for a lull in arrivals, so he could slip away, unassailed by the inbound, to freedom.
But then, the sun set, darkness ensued, Fred tripped, choked on the olive in his martini, turned bluer than the sun, and with borrowed sorrow was celebrated in posterity as the life of the party.