“Honey, you look straight out of a chick flick,” he remarked. Again, I blinked. Then, again, I asked, “Sorry?” “Cute outfit. Glass of wine. Sexy, messy hair. Cute house that looks out of a magazine. Not a lick of makeup and you look prettier than any woman I’ve seen for over a year. Gabbin’ on the phone like you look this good, in a place that looks this good every day when that shit’s impossible.” He paused before he concluded, “Chick flick.” Did he say sexy, messy hair? And that I looked prettier than any woman he’d seen for over a year? “Sorry?” I repeated yet again. “Say that again, I’ll
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