It took the entire drive for Indy to stop shivering thanks to the short walk from my apartment to the town car. I offered her my jacket, but she refused, claiming if she’s going to be photographed on my arm then it’s going to be in this dress. I don’t blame her because goddamn, this dress, but I’m going to come off like an asshole allowing my date to freeze in the Chicago evening temperatures.
“You ready?” I ask her as we pull up to the swanky hotel hosting the fall banquet. And though the question is directed at Indy, I’m internally asking myself the same thing.
Besides the favor-date last year, I haven’t been photographed with a woman since I moved to Chicago, and now I’m regretting pulling Indy into this madness. My life is forever on display, and I hate it. Anonymity is rare and I’m
