Amy paced across the bedroom.
Seventeen steps to the window, pivot, fifteen steps back to the mirror. Her new sundress swished around her knees – impulse purchase, one size too optimistic. Twenty-seven minutes until he arrived. Twenty-six, actually. The clock on her microwave was fast.
“You are a grown woman,” she told her reflection, which stared back with unconvinced eyes. “You’ve been on dates before.”
“Why am I so nervous?” she asked herself in the mirror. “It’s just Asa, your nice neighbor.
The sundress was yellow – “Daffodil Dream” according to the tag – with tiny white flowers scattered across the fabric like stars on a summer night.
She’d spent forty-three minutes and all her remaining dignity in the fitting room deciding between this one and a blue number that made her look l
