17
I Shall Call Her Squishy and She Shall Be Mine
How a person can drink that much and not be making soul-bearing promises to the toilet the next morning is beyond me.
Miraculously, though, Lucy Collins is awake, fresh makeup on, sitting on the couch in what appear to be clean, albeit garishly unmatched clothes. The living room reeks of nail polish as she fans bright red fingernails while gingerly flipping through a glossy magazine about Portland nightlife. She’s rather silent. Which is weirdly unsettling. Perhaps she learned her lesson last night? Perhaps when she murmurs a small “thank you” to Ryan as I stand at the front desk paying the balance of her bar tab, she realizes she might have stepped over the line?
And then she departs in the middle of cramming blueberry pancakes into he
