Dale ran into Jill early the next morning on his way to the mailbox, which was centrally located in the parking lot shared by two rows of townhouses. Still in his sweats, he’d just finished a scathing write-up of the new Thai restaurant in Carytown and thought he might see her if he ducked out to check the mail after sending off the review via e-mail to his editor. She had to be to work by noon but was frequently late—the clock on Dale’s computer said ten till when he checked it before ducking outside. So it was no surprise he saw her dashing for her black Honda Civic as he stood at the mailbox.
The noise he made opening his mailbox caused her to glance his way. “Dale!” she called, waving as if a crowd of people separated them and she wanted to get his attention. “Hey! I’m running late.”
