The older girl shook her head, looking directly at the table littered with magazines and snacks, and Sweet Sweet felt her smile slip, the sound of the music playing out behind her long past the cue required for the beginning of the verse. She dropped down onto the leather couch, and placed her hands upon Astarte’s shoulders.
“What’s wrong?”
Astarte turned to look at her, sniffling slightly, smiling weakly.
“Nothing,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes on the sleeve of her blouse.
Sweet Sweet looked worried, and then tried to force the smile back to her face, rubbing her hand against the other girl’s arm.
“It’s got to be something.”
Astarte laughed and shook her head.
“No, it’s fine.” She looked about her, the busy table, the colorful television set with its illuminated words,
