If only Bridge would quit with the blah, blah, blah and walk away.
There’s little chance of that. Nothing slows down my closest friend on Earth when she’s in the middle of one of her impassioned rants. This one is about the latest novel she reviewed for her blog. Something about witches or werewolves or whatever paranormal crush she’s hot over this week.
Bridget North should be an Olympic swimmer. It seems like several minutes pass before she takes a breath. Finally she does, pausing only to push a few strands of her brown hair out of her brown eyes. Those eyes, bright and wide, would look at home on the face of the world’s most innocent child.
“Bridge,” I say, putting a hand on hers so that she won’t be tempted to start up again. “Why don’t you go mingle? Chat up a cute guy?”
My touch startles her at first, but then she rolls her eyes like I knew she would.
“Anyway, I really liked how this writer made it seem like he was a goner, but then nothing happened. Nothing. And he was fine and life all hunky-dory headed to the big old sunshiny happy ending, and then wham!” She slams her hands on the counter. Her coffee mug shakes with an offended clink, and the barista shoots her a dirty look.
Bridget gives up an apologetic shrug, but it doesn’t slow her momentum.
“Wham,” she repeats, now leaning in and moving to a whisper. “The whole thing ended in this gut-wrenching twist. He actually died. Died! And he was a main character. Wrung my heart like a dirty dish towel. Ooh, that’s good. I’ll have to use that in my review. You have to read it. It’s just fantastic. Man, this coffee is good tonight. Do you think it’s good tonight? Like better than usual, right? I’m so glad we came to Mister Goodbrew. This place is the best. It smells like heaven.” She goes on like I’ve said nothing at all.
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