“Really, what do you want to say to her?”
Before Amanda had a chance to answer, a teenager with acne, the beginnings of stubble and an apron around his waist appeared at the table holding a pen and a small notebook. “What can I get you, ladies?” he asked with a little grin.
“I’ll have chicken salad and a diet coke,” Barbara replied, returning the smile.
“Yeah, me too,” Amanda offered, her mind elsewhere.
“I’m on it,” he said, taking off for the kitchen somewhere out of sight.
“Cute kid,” Barbara said.
“Yeah, he is.”
“So, what do you want to say to Lady Godiva? Something like, ‘keep your clothes on,’ or maybe, ‘stop f*****g my husband?”’
“I don’t know what I want to tell her. I just want her to know that she’s not getting away with anything. And I want to make her life harder.”
“Ve
