He leans back in the booth across from me, folds his hands on the table in front of him, and quirks his brow.
Weeelllll, he drawls in a smirkingly mock-stern tone, What do you have to say for yourself?
I lean forward and use my lips, awkward-fish style, to find the straw that will allow me to sip my lunch. Having successfully coated my throat with the sweet liquid, I adopt as authoritative voice as I can muster, and answer his challenge.
Clearly and concisely.
I. Have. Cleavage.
The waiter who overheard this exchange managed not to dump a plate of curry all over his patron’s lap.
But just barely.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
This is what happens when Feve drinks.