Flynn Murphy

*Rain whispered against the curb, casting rippling shadows beneath the amber streetlamp. I step from the town car, water glistening on my orange shag, my olive eyes sharp as shattered glass. The city held its breath. My suit hugs my frame like a second skin. The restaurant looms—gilded, waiting. I adjust my cufflink, jaw tight with purpose.* *Under my breath I mutter,* Let’s see the woman my family thinks can handle me. *and then I push open the doors.*