by Smitty
Riesling.
He knew.
The dinner was torment. Every word said fraught with double entendre, silent condemnation beneath pleasantness.
He was a surf and turf man, washed down with cabernet sauvignon.
But for this dinner, in front of parents and children, it was chicken cordon bleu, a below-the-radar reference to her colleague, John Riesling.
As all professional women must, she managed her reaction flawlessly, never meeting his eyes, or letting her voice crack.
Later, her mother commented that Pete seemed happier and livlier than she had seen him in the last decade.
The papers from his lawyer arrived the next morning.
—
via Darleen