Twenty-Eight

Camilla

“Your friend, Lisa, is really something,” I said to George with good humor and relaxed into the comfortable sofa while chuckling with happy memories.

After work, George took me to cake oasis, a small, family owned bakery that was recently transformed by the owner's daughter who created a whimsical looking sitting space for patrons.

“Her face was camera-worthy,” I said, with a mouth full of laughter. “I mean, I don't get why she doesn't like me. I told you she didn't the first time we went to her house but you kept defending her. Gosh, I've never felt so happier.”

The warm and sweet aroma of freshly baked goods floated over us as we talked. A small child ran past carrying a plate of cookies, giggling at his own childish joy.

George looked distracted. He wasn't fully present in the conversation and I wondered why. He was still wearing his uniform from work—white shirt, grey pants and his coat.

I waved a hand on his face after taking a sip of my creamy milkshake and he blinked,