"My condolences. Miranda was a friend of mine."
The woman in front of me is speaking as quietly as she can over the noise of the bar. Fine porcelain skin, a come-hither smile made of rosy red lipstick and full, rounded lips. I watch as the light and the darkness dance across hair that reaches her shoulders. Her figure is full, swaying to the rhythm of someone's jukebox selection.
"My wife is gone, so let's talk about you." The words roll off my tongue automatically. It's our agreed-upon code phrase.
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