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Weekly Contest #336
Someone at our table said, “He’s here.” I was tearing a piece of bread in half when she said it. It was warm, and better than the chicken. Butter soaked through the napkin when I set it down. “Who,” a man asked. “Maya’s ex,” she said, nodding toward the bar. I turned. He stood near a tall cocktail table with a drink in his hand. The drink stayed low, near his hip. He didn't lift it. He kept scanning the room, looking away, scanning again. Like he needed to memorize something. “He actually came,” the man said. “He flew in this morning,”...
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