“Your sad little face makes it look like you need a beer. Happy?” I frown. “I don’t have a sad face.” “Is that why you’re frowning?” “I’m not frowning,” I tell him, still frowning. “Your sad-girl walk, then,” he says. He turns me around and presses his palm to the small of my back. “You looked like you were marching to the gallows when I was coming down the street.”
