She Was Sitting In My Front-Row Seat Holding My Novel — Smiling Like She Had Stolen My Life

gleamed against her lap.

Its design showed a pale orchard beneath a glass dome, branches heavy with fruit that looked beautiful until you noticed the thorns.

She ran one red fingernail over the title.

A tiny scraping sound reached me through the music.

Graham sighed in that patient way he used with waiters and wives.

“This is a serious literary event,” continue reading …