Slumped in a tiny armchair, feet propped precariously on a book standing on end, she let out a sigh the size of a cat’s yawn.
The pen she had used to scribble acidic remarks in the margins of this bubbling novel, fell to the floor hardly marking that special moment.
Would her guests really want to eat, or could she get away with opening potato snacks and a Napa Valley roncini?
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