I know, I know, I muttered, shutting Cynthia up before she could lecture me again.
We talked and laughed, reminiscing about the bar nights when life had felt reckless and endless. I teased her about how men had practically drooled over her—how she left most of them obsessed before finally settling for a steady company job, after one idiot even tried to cross the line. She fired back, teasing me about my chaos, about how the madam had loved me most because I earned the most money for her.
"Why don't we go back?" she asked suddenly, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Oh, my mother would have a heart attack," I joked. She laughed, a little too loud for the quiet café, and I felt some of the tension from last week's lift.
