13
The next morning, I woke wearing strange pajamas in a strange bed. I turned my head slowly, partly because I was hungover and partly because I wasn’t sure what to expect.
I was alone. In the guest bedroom.
I let out a sigh of relief, dumbassery averted. Roger was a dear friend (a very attractive, dear friend) and I’d had fun with him last night, but life gets complicated quickly when you sleep with your colleagues.
There was a knock at the door, presumably a repetition of what had woken me. And then another knock, followed by my name. I struggled to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth.
“Yes,” I croaked.
“Breakfast,” Roger said. “Now.”
I rolled (literally) out of bed and headed to the kitchen. Roger handed me a glass of red liquid.
“Bloody Mary?” I asked.
“Virgin Mary,”
