Here was the goodnight at the door and all that she could think was that she felt ill.
She didn’t know how to tell him. How would she say it? She’d struggled all evening.
More worrisome, what would his reaction be? Did they have THAT sort of relationship? Was she free to say such a thing?
She’d suffered in silence throughout dinner. The play hadn’t been that difficult to endure, excepting her awkward distraction during intermission.
Fidgeting with her key, turning from his lips with perfect timing, she stated breathlessly, “You’ve got a bit of spinach stuck in your teeth.”