The bill had just landed when the waitress leaned in and said his card was declined. Color left his face. He patted his pockets, laughed once, and said the bank must have frozen it after a trip. I offered to split it. He refused, already standing, already steering me toward the door with a hand at my back. I thought he was embarrassed. I was wrong about the reason.
Halfway across the parking lot she caught my arm. Her voice was barely a breath. I lied. She pressed the receipt into my palm and went back inside before he turned around. Under the printed total, in frantic pen, were two words: drink drugged. My glass had tasted slightly bitter near the end. I had blamed the lemon.
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