Six
Cara was still a bit drunk when she woke up the next morning. It was the kind of hangover that allows you to ignore the consequences of the night before, allowing just enough clarity to realize what a wild and interesting person you must be to have done the things you did. No dreams, and she liked that. She liked the way she felt.
“Wild night, huh?” her husband asked.
“Not really, just drank,”
“How’s Martha?”
“Martha?”
“Yeah, don’t you hate her or something?”
“Yeah, I flicked her bean and made out with a guy that works in the back,”
“How many beans did she have?”
“That’s personal, you shouldn’t ask questions like that,”
“Her beans are off the table?”
“Off the table,”
“Probably because you flicked them,”
“I flicked her beans off the table,”
“No magic beanstalk then?”
“No,
