The manager is busy, and our policy is absolute. No respectable establishment— The man breaks off in midsentence about the time I feel a hand on my elbow. Kiernan leans in and plants a quick kiss on my cheek. So sorry to leave you stranded, dearest. You were right—my notecase was lying on the bed, right where I left it. Don’t they have a table? The maître d’ lets out a relieved sigh. My apologies, sir. Your . . . wife . . . failed to tell me you would be joining her. Please follow me. I do hope she wasn’t battering you with the whole women’s rights routine. If so, you have my sympathies. I hear it day in and day out. Two middle-aged men at the table we’re walking past seem to find Kiernan’s comment amusing. One barks out a cloud of foul-smelling smoke as he laughs.There’s this scene in an old martial arts film I watched with Charlayne once upon a time in that faraway reality where the Cyrists and CHRONOS were of no concern. Jackie Chan, or maybe it was Bruce Lee, single-handedly took out every man in the restaurant. While I’m under no illusions that I could actually do that, the feminist inside me would dearly love to try right now. ― Rysa Walker, Time's Divide
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