Chapter 19

• As soon as we hang up, I stealthily open the bedroom door, silently crawling out on my hands and knees, the strap of my handbag held securely in my mouth. Skinny Jeans haven't even incited any interest. I am curious as to why he is not present at work. What is his line of work again? I try to remember. Ah, yes–he is affiliated with a film production company. His day doesn't kick off until 10 am.
• I find myself in a living room, where I observe the aftermath of the previous night: an overflowing ashtray, empty wine bottles, and–oh, please, God, not this–a bottle of whisky. My shoes and jacket are both on the couch. I awkwardly slip them on, grappling with the irritatingly intricate shoe straps on these Zara YSL-inspired gems, and get up for the first time today. I nearly faint from the sudden rush of blood/oxygen/booze to my head. I feel simultaneously hot and cold, nauseous and fuzzy, and I’m trying not to think about the fact that maybe, yes, I might, possibly, yes, I probably definitely had sex with Skinny Jeans last night.
• The used condom on the floor next to the bed gives it away. Three cheers for safe sex.