— What are they, silver?
— They’re platinum. Better than silver.
— They’re your wife’s.
— They were being repaired. I had to pick them up.
It was hard not to admire her, her bare neck, her aplomb.
— Can I borrow them? she asked.
— I can’t. She knows I was supposed to pick them up.
— Just say they weren’t ready.
— I’ll give them back. Is that what you’re afraid of? I’d just like to wear them once, smoething that’s hers but at the moment mine.
— That’s very Bette Davis.
— Just be careful and don’t lose them, he managed to say.
That was a Tuesday. Two nights later a terrible event occured.
We read it in Last Night.
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