Don’t lie to me, over and over, drowning her out. She tried to argue but he just kept chanting, Don’t lie to me. "Don’t you call me a liar," the girl shouted and stood, shouldering an elaborate gold purse. Laurel tried her damnedest to block them out and focus on her book but it was like ignoring a wasp in her ear. The girlfriend wore a similar top but her jeans were two sizes too small, the crazy-low-rise style girls constantly fussed with to keep their ass cracks from peeking. That stereotype of a look-baggy black jeans, pristine work boots, awful pencil-thin chinstrap beard and an undershirt, which in this case looked as if it deserved the nasty nickname wife beater. The guy was white but dressed as though he’d prefer to be Puerto Rican like his girlfriend. Every fifth word that left the man’s mouth was a nasal fuckin’. Young, probably early twenties, with accents that suggested both had grown up in the area. They’d been arguing even before they’d taken up residence two benches down from Laurel. A pleasant escape from her un-air-conditioned apartment and the glares of her bar exam-obsessed roommate. The afternoon had started out idyllic-a perfect July day in Boston, sunny with a cooling breeze, and a prime, shaded bench all to herself off the waterfront’s beaten tourist path. Laurel gritted her teeth, stared down at the book in her hands, the paragraph she’d been trying to read for the past five minutes.
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