by Mitzi McMahon
I watch my friend from the doorway and think this was a mistake. I should be at home working on my marriage or at the dry cleaners or at the grocery store, anywhere but here. But Claire called, crying. Said she didn’t want to be alone while her ex-fiancé is tying the knot. I didn’t think it was a good idea for me to come, not now with my own shit so messed up, but I couldn’t say no.
Claire stands in front of the full-length mirror, a shot of whiskey in her hand. I take in the rumpled bed covers, the discarded t-shirts and argyle vests and jeans heaped on a chair, the costume jewelry scattered along the dresser top, and sigh. Continue reading
