Milene
“Was he hot?” Andrea, my best friend, asks.
I lodge the phone between my shoulder and cheek and take out some leftovers from the fridge to have for dinner.
“I guess,” I say and pile the food onto my plate. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.
“What kind of answer is that? Was he or not?”
“He was. Tall. Expensive suit. Dark hair, a little salt-and-pepper in places. He smelled nice.” Very, very nice. I can still smell his cologne on my T-shirt.
“Gray hairs? How old was that guy?”
“Midthirties. Probably going prematurely gray.” I place the plate in the microwave, setting the timer to one minute. Not nearly enough time for the food to warm up sufficiently, but it’ll have to do. I’m too hungry to wait any longer than that.
“And he didn’t say anything? His name?”
“Nope. Just
