Chapter Six
The Dance
A dancer is only as good as her audience.
Mavis was standing at the bar in the restaurant talking to Kamal, the owner. He was slim, dark, and handsome in an Imran Khan sort of way. He poured her a coffee and slid a few dinner mints across the bar like they were something elicit. Mavis slid a mint between her lips like it was something to be savoured and smiled back.
Their eyes met.
I stood by the fryer wondering what the hell Mavis was playing at. We only had an hour on the parking meter, and there she was miles from my music player acting like she was on a speed-dating night.
“Music,” I shouted, which she greeted with an “in a minute” gesture.
Jessie, the daughter, shouted at the birthday dad to “wake up.”
The birthday dad was sitting at the centre of the res
