The waiter came by, a guy around my own age, slick and perfect, most likely an aspiring actor. Sometimes, I wondered if there was any other kind of waiter in this town.
Before I could ask for an iced tea, Allan ordered a bottle of chardonnay. I opened my mouth to protest but realized doing so would only highlight my reluctance to drink at lunch, and so I pushed my misgivings aside. One glass wouldn’t kill me. If we didn’t finish the bottle, the waiter could cork it up and Allan could take it home with him in the trunk of his car.
“I hope you didn’t mind,” he said, after we’d placed our orders — lemon piccata chicken for him and pasta primavera for me. “It just seemed like such a nice day, we should have some wine to celebrate.”
“We’re celebrating the nice day?”
His gaze lingered on my
