Touched

LAYTON

On Friday afternoon, I took Marissa out to lunch. We were at a small Mexican restaurant near the office, bundled up in a booth in the back corner. It was below freezing outside again today and we managed to snag a booth near the roaring fireplace.

The restaurant was decorated in rich colors and dark brown wood. A Mexican flag hung above the bar and it smelled like tortillas and spice.

Marissa had shrugged out of her black coat and was wearing red jeans, black boots and a fitted black shirt with her usual array of jewelry. She was snuggled under my arm in the back of the booth, smiling and raving about the plate of tacos we’d just demolished.

“That was incredible,” she told me, staring wistfully at the empty plate in front of us.

“We have another order on the way,” I reminded her and was rewarded by a bright smile.

“How could I forget?” She buried her face in her hands and shook her head. “That’s the best news I’ve had all day.”

“What about the news we got on the Linderman accou