The curator reached for her drink and casually asked, “Seven years is a long time. What makes you think you are not the relationship type anymore?”

“I haven’t had time to think.” Jodi reached for her fork and, thinking the conversation was winding down, she couldn’t help but add, “I’ve been too busy fucking.”

“Oh brother! Why do you…”

“Lucia,” she called, pushing the palm of her hand forward in that international sign for “Stop”. She was hoping her friend wouldn’t take this the wrong way, but she wasn’t about to let herself be judged. “I am having a good time! I love the fact that I can do that without any kind of responsibility or compromise. And I won’t allow you or anyone else to make me feel guilty about how I choose to live my life.”

She wasn’t expecting to see Lucia’s facial expression soften into genuine concern. “I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty, Jodi.” The brunette leaned forward, her arms resting on each side of her lunch plate. “I’m telling you this because I genuinely care about you. I mean… I know how the typical day in your life:  you wake up in the morning with a hangover… you go to your studio… you work on your art while going thru a whole carton of cigarettes… you go home to take a shower ten hours later… you then go out to a club, you drink yourself to the edge of oblivion… you pick up a random girl from the crowd… you go to her place, because you don’t want her to know where you live… you fuck her… you stagger back to your place just before sunrise… sleep for three hours… and start the circle all over again.”

By the time Lucia ended her little recreation, Jodi could barely keep her jaw from dropping. Although the redhead wouldn’t call it entirely “typical”, some details were too close for comfort, and there was only one way to explain that.

The fact that Tom stopped interpreting in the middle of the goddamn sentence was also a dead giveaway.

The redhead faced Tom, whose ears were already as pink as his shirt. “Have you been speaking about me behind my back?”