The thought of being early for lunch with Jen is a thorn in Amber’s side that hurts like a fall from a bike onto salted barbed wire. She can’t do it. She circles the block one more time. Fashionably late would work.
Stepping into the mutely lit restaurant, she feels the heat of the spot lights on her forehead and her cheeks roast when she passes the cordoned off kitchen with tongues of culinary flames spitting from large pans. She catches Jen’s eye and gets a beautiful wave and a glossy smile. That’s a relief.
Amber tosses her keys on the table with her phone face down, slings her handbag over the arm of the chair and sits. She wishes she had buttoned another few buttons of her blouse and had worn jeans. Everything blurs except for Jen’s face.
‘Hey, what time did you get home last night? I was shot,’ she busies herself pouring water into the…
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