She sat at her vanity, fumbling with a wig. If he wanted a night out, he was going to get a night out.
But leaving the house? The last thing she wanted to do. She was still wiped from the chemo. Then add dinner, drinks and dancing? She’d rather die.
Which she almost did last year. And probably would have if it wasn’t for him.
He’d been waiting on her hand and foot ever since she felt that lump. Doing everything and more.
She struggled with a pair of fake eyelashes.
Date night. It was the least she could do.
The Weekday One Hundred 