Vera checks her hair in the mirror and glances out the window. The table is elegantly set, the champagne is on ice, and the tomato salad, fresh from the garden, glistens invitingly. He said he’d be here an hour ago, but she won’t let herself call. She paces the small but elegantly appointed one-bedroom, returning to the pane to watch for his car. Even after three decades, she still anticipates the rush when she first sees him step out onto the street below. Glowing, excited, and a little nervous, she looks like any other woman in love. But she’s not any other woman. She’s the other woman. Also
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