(Gloria)
My neck is fucked.
That's the first thing my body tells me when I open my eyes, cheek stuck to the arm of the couch.
Throw blanket twisted around one foot.
A wine glass on the coffee table with half a finger of red left in it, congealed at the bottom.
The TV is still on. A chef on a Spanish island is chastising someone about raw garlic.
Eight twenty in the morning.
I sit up slowly.
My phone is face-down on the rug under the coffee table because I threw it there at some point around midnight.
My recollection of the event is fuzzy, since the bottle of red wine was empty by then.
I pick it up and glare at the screen.
Nothing.
Not a missed call.
Not a text.
Not a goddamn emoji.
Twelve hours of waiting for a man who I foolishly decided to give another chance.
I never learn.
I stand up and my back loudly informs me what it thinks of last night.
After brushing my teeth and washing my face I do something that should probably let me know that I’m not quite sober yet.
I pick up my phone and call Piper.
She picks up on the second ring.
"Gloria."
"You were right. I agreed to go on a date with him and he stood me up. I still don’t know why."
"Oh, Gloria. I’m so sorry."
That's it. That's all she says.
Not I told you so.
Not What did you expect?
Just Oh, Gloria. I’m so sorry, in a voice I don't think I've heard out of Piper Morton in years.
"Come have breakfast with me. There's a place on Larchmont with eggs that will fix at least three of your problems."
"Yeah. Yeah, okay."
"Forty minutes. I'll book us a table and text you the details."
She hangs up.
I shower and fret about what to wear for far too long.
It’s brunch, not a gala.
I put on jeans and a clean shirt and the lipstick that compliments my complexion perfectly.
Then I drive across town, all the while telling myself what a massive mistake this is.
Piper is at a corner table on the patio in oversized sunglasses, her hair pinned up with a clip.


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