“Sugar, milk?” Sheryl is anxious, moving fast around her messy kitchen. “I can’t remember how you like it.”
There are empty beer bottles lying around like relics.
“It must have been quite a party last night,” I say. “I’ll drink it black, thanks.” I motion for her to sit down. She’s making me nervous. I’m already a mess. Didn’t sleep last night.
She sets our cups down and pulls out a chair across from mine. We sit at her table and I watch her stir her coffee for a long time. Her hair is a little dull under the dim kitchen light, and her pink cotton robe needs to be burned immediately. But she’s still beautiful. She has the bone structure of a Golden Era actress.
“Now,” she says, looking straight up at me. In her eyes, I see my old friend again. Maybe she’s coming around to me after all.
