Wishful Thinking Parker Allen • Fiction
“What is taking the food so long?” Laura said. “I ordered a salad.” The waiter came by to bring a bottle of cabernet to Laura and Chris’ table. Laura poured a glass and took a hefty swig. “I don’t mind,” Chris said. “All the more time to stare at that beautiful face.” Laura hissed, pinching her face and looking at her glass. She wore a nice blouse with a high neckline (so as not to give Chris the wrong idea), her jeans were slightly distressed, and her slip-on Vans were clean and white as a doctor’s office. Each aspect of the outfit was working to convey a casual tolerance for her monthly lunches with Chris. “Don’t stare,” Laura said. “It’s creepy.” “I don’t care when people look at me,” he said. “I know you don’t,” she said. “Well, I’d expect so,” he said. “After all, we were married for eight months.” “That’s not how I know,” she said. “Do tell,” he said, waving his fork. “If you didn’t want people staring at you,” she said, “you wouldn’t have worn a velvet tracksuit.”
These Fish Bite •
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