Val’s P.O.V

The bubble of our contentment was fragile, a shimmer of grease-smeared cardboard, sugar-dusted fingers, and shared laughter. We were in the final, languid stage of the meal, picking at the last, cold Cinnamon Twist and sipping the dregs of our fancy water. The sharp edges of the night had been thoroughly sanded down by carbs and companionship. I was leaning back against the vinyl booth, feeling a pleasant, drowsy fullness, watching the Friday night traffic drift by the ...