“I can take an early lunch. Do you want to talk about it? Maybe over some Subway?” I cinch one eye closed and shake my head at her. “Don’t try to butter me up with a footlong Italian B.M.T. with all the fixings, extra pickles, mayo, and the special vinaigrette. I know you just want to lecture me about getting fired.” She raises her eyebrows at my response. “I do. But that description was quite specific. Sounds like you want a sandwich.” I raise my eyebrows right back at her. “Are you paying?” “Sure,” she says. “Can we skip the lecture?” “No,” she snaps. But my stomach grumbles right on cue.
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