“Excuse me, miss,” he said, setting the drink in front of me. “This is from the gentleman at the bar.”
I looked over and saw a man sitting alone, raising his own glass in my direction. He looked to be in his thirties, reasonably attractive, with dark hair and a friendly, close-lipped smile.
My first instinct was to refuse. I was married, after all, even if it was a sham of a marriage. And I didn’t make a habit of accepting drinks from strangers.
But then I thought about everything that had been happening lately. I was dying, potentially even faster than I initially expected, at twenty-f*****g-two years of age, and I’d spent the last five years of my life living like a nun, following all the rules, being the perfect Luna wife while my husband ignored me completely.
How many
