It was too late. Liz hesitated in the doorway for a beat too long before returning the way she’d come. Of course, Joe spotted her, excusing himself from whatever woman he was fawning over. Liz slipped into the bathroom while he begged her to wait a minute. She ignored him and hurried towards a mirror to touch up her perfectly applied lipstick.

“Come on, Liz, let me explain.” It was Joe, voice pleading as he pounded on the door.

Well, too bad. She wouldn’t let him sweet-talk his way out of this mess. He might be a hotshot pitcher for the Nashville Mockingbirds, but it didn’t justify his celebrating with some leggy blonde after winning the last playoff game. She found the evidence splashed across the front page of the sports section during breakfast last week as she emerged from a stupid migraine fog that had held her prisoner in her own body, locked in a dark house. Maybe if she’d been there — but no, she wouldn’t blame herself for his mistakes.

She blotted her lips while plotting her escape before the stress induced another nasty migraine. Trust this uppity place not to have windows in here — couldn’t risk the riffraff getting ideas. Which meant the only way out was past Joe.

“Pam’s the owner,” a lady said, joining Liz at the sinks.

“What?” 

“Ya know, in the photos. She’s like basically his boss.”

Liz frowned, and the lady left.

“Sorry,” Joe said when Liz came out.

“No, I’m sorry.”

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length: 250 words | word: lipstick | action: hesitating in a doorway