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“So, Lucy, how did you meet Josh?” “We met at work,” Josh supplied the first time when the silence stretched too thin, so it becomes my default answer.
It doesn't even make sense that this was a difficult question. The "default answer" is the truth. What was she thinking of saying otherwise? Just really irked me.
“Lucy, tell everyone how you met Josh.” Inwardly I shriek. I’ve answered this same question at least eight times today, and it never gets any easier. “Well. Well, uh …” Oh crap, I’m sounding like a priced-by-the-hour escort who hasn’t thought of a good enough lie. What did we agree again? I’m Shortcake? I can’t tell them that. If I ever was going to humiliate Josh, now would be the time. I can almost imagine saying it. He forced me to come.
They asked how you met, now how you got together. Why is this so difficult?! I'm sorry, but it doesn't even make sense.
I’ll always remember the drive home as a movie montage, and I knew I was in one. Each detail was vividly bright. I knew I’d need the memories one day. This montage is directed by someone French. A convertible would have been their preference, but the windows are down, so that’s something. The air is unseasonably warm and scented like honeysuckle and cut grass. The montage stars this pretty girl, Flamethrower-red mouth smiling over at a beautiful man. He’s looking so achingly cool in his sunglasses you immediately buy a pair for yourself. He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses it. Tells her
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