SWEETHEART
Reluctant sips of ice-cold chocolate lingered on her tongue tip.
“So, am I up to your expectations?” his voice dipped deeper and huskier than it was before.
“What expectation?” confused, her brain demands some explanation.
“Well, if you can’t remember my name, you surely must have forgotten my face. So, am I up to your expectation”?
Sarah almost spits out the drink been seen through like a thin glass but quickly recomposed herself. With a sigh, she concluded that there is no need to be nice to a stranger, pansying around with her time.