What's the Worst That Could Happen

Ariana twiddled her iPad pencil between her thumb and forefinger, idly sketching a design on the screen then swiping it out. He was

“You ok? You don’t look well.”

It wasn’t that long ago that the full beam of those eyes had been on her almost any time they were together.

Ariana scraped her long brown hair back into a ponytail as she pushed her way out of the Uber, stretching a silk scrunchie over one hand, pulling the skirt of her black pencil dress down into place with the other, swiping at a dusting of what looked like flour from her lunchtime bagel.