I could only offer a strained, sheepish grin in response to the BBQ lady’s suggestive parting shot. Even I had to admit that my personal life had undergone a radical, almost frantic transformation recently. My nights were no longer defined by the solitary silence of a basement apartment, but by a dizzying cycle of encounters that were as exhausting as they were exhilarating.
As I prepared to usher Jennifer Arnoyd out of the small, smoke-filled eatery, the proprietress caught my eye one last time. She leaned against the counter, her eyes tracing the lines of my shoulders with an intensity that made me feel like a piece of meat on her grill. "Don't be a stranger, Mr. Barnes," she purred, her voice trailing off into a low, husky vibration. "Come back soon, and I’ll make sure you're properly.
