Just Friends [antikvár]

Freya peeled off her clothes and stood in her underwear, contemplating her reflection. She wanted to look her best for Michael tonight. There had been no time to go home to change; she must make do with this cramped ladies' room beneath her office, with its unforgiving light and damp basement smell. Her new dress hung from the cubicle door: not classic black, not vampish leopardskin, but a cool thousand dollars' worth of palest pink that shimmered with a tracery of opalescent beads - a Cinderella dress chosen to make her as feminine and delicate as a porcelain doll. That was the look she was aiming for, less femmefatale, more . . .femme, plain and simple. Let's go somewhere special\ he had said over breakfast on Monday morning, somewhere we can talk. Questions had exploded in her head, üke popcorn in a hot pan. Talk about what? Why not right here in the apartment? Freya had choked them back. Instead, she'd done a lot of shopping. But all week long she had carried his words around with her, a time-bomb in the pit of her stomach, ticktick-ticking as the days passed. Was this It? Was she about to become Mrs Normál, grouching about schools and the state of her suburban lawn?