She gripped the railing and spoke to her left hand.
Maybe next time I should leave it at home.
I glanced at her ring finger, but said nothing. I already knew she was bothered.
As we poured out of the dance club, sultry on sexual overtone, we politely declined offers for an extended evening. Beyond steamy smoke and mirrors, I assured ambitious amateurs that our phone numbers would do them no good.
A few steps away, Laila was exposed under the jaundiced glow of a street lamp. The multifaceted cut so carefully selected for her would glimmer under even the grimiest bulb.
Man, don't waste your time. She's married.
The corners of her smile fell a little.
Anyone could see this was new to her.