I knew I was done the second the black couple sat in my section, and I still walked over with the menus like my cunt wasn’t already a problem.
He was everything I had been ruining my sheets over. Tall. Built. A mouth that looked like it didn’t ask twice. Maybe three or four years older than me. The ring on his finger caught the restaurant light and I looked at it and got wetter, which is a sickness I don’t explain to people. His wife sat across from him in a silk dress, pretty, calm, the kind of woman who doesn’t have to raise her voice. She smiled at me. He didn’t smile. He looked.
“Table for two,” she said. “He’s Andre. I’m Camille. We’ll have the special if it’s still on.”
“It’s on.” My voice came out steady. My thighs were not.
I took the order. When I set the plates down his finge
