The bartender handed him a Tom Collins, in and out of which he whipped his quick tongue. Her sweet dung beetle Jonathan would be home soon, she thought, and he would view even simple flirtation as a betrayal. God forbid she went home with the frog—she knew exactly the expression Jonathan would make if he ever found out, as if his face was buttoned up like a shirt. It would break her heart. But she couldn’t resist the iridescent glare of the lights on the frog’s moist back, or the way he took up so much space at the desolate Tuesday happy hour. She checked Jonathan’s location on her iPhone...still at work. It’s a good thing she could keep her secrets.
Tossing back the rest of her Manhattan she stood up and straightened her clothes, putting on the expression she knew would seduce anyone, man or frog. She felt a magnetism drawing her forward and he turned to look at her as she came closer. He stared at her dumbly with pupils askew. She wasn’t sure he could actually see her, as she may have been standing directly in the center of his blind spot. She moved slightly to the left and he stirred with recognition.
“Hey there,” she said softly.
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