Her eyes caressed me. “How did you know?”
“I’m psychic,”
“I believe you are.” Her hand came across the table to rest on mine.
The psychic one was the waiter. He materialized by the table without any apparent signal.
“Fill them up again,” I said.
I took the cigarette package from my pocket, extended it to Marilyn. “How about another one?”
“Thanks.”
She took it, and I fumbled around in the package with my forefinger.
“I believe I took the last one,” she said.
I shook the package, grinned, crushed it, said, “That’s all right. I’ll get more.”