a woman on the verge.
“It’s a metaphorical bridge, Elizabeth.”
“I’m not jumping, metaphorical or otherwise,” snapped Elizabeth.
“I think it’s high time you did,” said Rebecca, “We’ve been playing together for five years, and I’ve watched you go from one useless boyfriend to another, without a backward glance. Three dates and they’re out, just like in baseball. But you never wrote a song about a single one of them. Ever. Now you think you’re going to escape a full-blown interrogation? Oh, no. Honey, when you do, you have to tell me all about it. I want to hear every single, sordid detail.”
Sordid details ran through Elizabeth’s mind like late-night cable television—scintillating, titillating, late-night cable. Desperate to escape, Elizabeth checked her watch. “Peter is going to shoot you for keeping us late tonight, Rebecca. He’s got plans for this evening.”
Rebecca snickered. “He won’t be mad after I tell him what we were talking about.”
“You can’t!” hollered Elizabeth, a lot louder than she intended.
Rebecca wiggled her brows. “See, I knew there was something to tell. You’re getting a break today, but just remember…I’ll be watching.”
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