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

” she said.

There was sweetness in her tone.

There was poison beneath it.

The photographer near the side aisle raised his camera.

I felt the lens like cold breath against my cheek.

My left hand trembled once.

Only once.

I closed it around my evening bag until the clasp bit into my palm.

Inside that bag was not lipstick.

Not tissues.

Not a compact mirror to fix continue reading …