The Stranger Wearing His Face
Language: en
It had been entirely too long since the three of us managed to get together for dinner. I slid into the booth next to my best friend, just like I always did. We were sharing a plate of appetizers when his fork suddenly slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor. "Jesus, Holden! You know I'm left-handed. Why do you always have to sit on my left side?" he snapped, his voice suddenly sharp and loud. My hand, reaching down to grab the fallen fork, froze mid-air. He was right. He was left-handed. But we had a pact. A stupid, private little pact that dictated whenever…