Liars

“Well, well, well,” Angie crooned. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you here again.”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Simon said, shrugging, and pulled out a chair. Once he’d already sat down he wondered, “This seat taken?”

“Meeting a friend,” she told him, wearing the kind of smile that said ‘I know something you don’t know.’

“I won’t stay long,” he gave back, and lit up a cigarette, happily ignoring the No Smoking signs that were plastered around. Just as happily ignoring the glare of the bartender.

“I’ve missed you, you know,” Angie says, watching him exhale.

“Funny,” he says, calm and collected, “I don’t think about you at all. When I first came in, I don’t think I even recognized you. You blend in, is all.”

“Ah, forgettable me,” she sighed, laughing. “Nothing like yourself, in your flashy clothes and your expensive cars. What was your name again?” She winked.

“Let’s save the introductions for morning,” he said, stubbing out the cigarette. “You can tell me your name again while you’re making me coffee.”

“You always were a charmer,” Angie quipped, sliding out of the chair and tugging at her skirt, smoothing her hair.

“Comes naturally,” he found himself answering, even as he was already headed for the door, her in tow.

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