The waitress approached our table with a bright, practiced smile. "What would you like to order?"
The restaurant Lena chose was one of those polished uptown places—white tablecloths, gold-trimmed menus, windows so tall they caught every inch of sunlight. The light fell across the table in soft stripes, glinting off crystal glasses and polished silver. It was the kind of place where people came to be seen, not fed.
I could tell from the look on Lena's face that this was her territory. Her kingdom. The place she brought people when she wanted to remind them how far above them she believed she stood. The girls she invited from the company, who made just enough to treat themselves to something expensive once a month, could never afford a lunch here on their own.
Her friends were already taking pictures of the table, lifting their glasses to the sun for the perfect shot.
