She closes her eyes, and I feel my insides curdle. I have no idea what I’m feeling, but it doesn’t feel right. It feels messed up. She walks over to the couch and takes a seat, her hand barely keeping a hold of her beer. She looks up at me, and my face feels hot.
“Do you have Tivo?” She asks. “I don’t want to miss America’s Next Top Model.”
—
I’m alone on my couch. It would have never worked out anyway. We were two different people. For one, I preferred Project Runway.