Her hands shook as she fumbled out her keys, the pizza box wedged between her arm and the doorframe. Once inside, she set down the box, and locked the deadbolt and chain, checked the windows.
She grabbed the leftover wine she’d brought home from Saturday’s disastrous blind date and drank straight from the bottle.
She opened the box and ate a slice, still warm.
She’d been paying for her pizza when a man came in, stuck a gun into the cashier’s face and shot her, then ran out.
She’d just stupidly stood there, then picked up her pizza and left.