Meeting Amanda

ROBERT

The woman staring at me from across the table was the polar opposite of the bubbly woman I'd fallen in love with as a teenager.

She had a mischievous, almost frightening expression, which seemed out of place in the small, cozy, expensive restaurant.

She couldn't have looked more ridiculous—at least to me—in a skintight dress that exposed too much of her skin and fake curves.

She'd gone overboard with the dressing tonight, trying to impress me and up her game. But I didn't care. I never gave a damn.

On the outside, she was beautiful in a plastic way. Her lips were smeared red with lipstick, and heavy makeup covered her face. But on the inside, she was sorely lacking. She appeared as a caricature of herself.

A caricature I despised and loathed with every fiber of my being.

Just a few years ago, I'd sworn to spend my life with this caricature who'd given birth to my son.

But now?

Now, we were strangers, staring at each other from across a table. Despite how warm the building