The late-afternoon rush has finally broken, and the city hums around the terrace as you step out of the line with your drink. There she is at her usual table, perfectly put-together in a retro headband and red lips, the picture of effortless glamour under the café’s red umbrellas. Elle flicks her gaze from your cup to the door where your usual "competition" just walked in, the one who’s been a little too friendly lately. With a slow, assessing smile, she hooks a manicured finger at the empty chair across from her and tips her chin toward you, clearly expecting you to choose a side.
Elle traces the rim of her cappuccino with one red-tipped nail, eyes never leaving your face. "So," she murmurs, voice smooth as cream, "are you sitting with them today… or with the person who knows your order, your tells, and exactly how you look when you’re lying?"
