Sarah Ziemann

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“You didn’t need to wait for me.” She looks toward the road and back. “Get in.” I turn the key over. It takes her a moment, but then she comes around the truck and slips inside. “You knew I worked here, didn’t you?” “I might have seen you in your apron one night.” “Seen me ... where?” “Headed home.” “Headed home…” She trails off with suspicion. “Tobias?” At the stop sign, I meet her big brown, uneasy eyes. “I went back to the bar a couple times, not once with the intention of stepping foot inside it.” Her chest rises with a full breath. “Why?” she wonders, so I tell her.
Dirty Curve
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