| SEATTLE |

THE LOFT

The moon wakes me. Its light pours through the full-length windows in my studio. It's judging me, judging the naked man in the bed next to me.

I hope the moon isn't keeping count.

3:00 AM

The alarm clock on my bedside tells me I have four hours until I need to be up for my flight. I know what you're thinking. Alarm clock? What year is it?

I stand and stretch on my tiptoes. My eyes scan the floor for my strappy bralette and equally strappy panties.  Really, we may as well not bother wearing underwear at all.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror propped against my wall. My platinum hair rivals a rat's nest –even more so when I flip it into an actual nest of a topknot. My thin frame is finally starting to show some muscle definition. Thank you yoga. Thank you mom and dad for the money to start my yoga studio.

Moon follows me into the small corner of my loft I call a kitchen. I flip the switch next to the sink and a dim light flickers on. I grab a glass from the sink and fill up the coffee maker. Again, what year is it?

Tabloids litter the counter, courtesy of the roommate that left them behind. I flip through the pages absentmindedly noting which celebrity is now on drugs, what's the newest reality show, and which type of accessory is trending this season. Spoiler alert. Totes are in.

I scamper back across the room to my bed, leaving a coffee aroma trail in my wake. It's not a very long trail, all things considered. It's a corner loft in an old converted warehouse. It's going for the modern industrial chic but still kind of rustic at heart vibe. Suppose it should be disconcerting that I have a vibe aesthetic in common with my loft. Still, as a millennial I suppose I could be facing graver problems.

I hop into bed and plug in my phone. It died sometime last night between the fifth and tenth tequila shot. I don't blame myself. I blame the naked man next to me.

Speaking of which.

"Hi, babe. Is it morning?" He grumbles sleepily.

Babe.

I wonder if he knows my name.

Couldn't blame him. I don't know his.

"Not morning. Coffee?" I ask.

"No coffee. More sleep," he says.

I smile to myself. No coffee. More sleep. Sounds like a saying on some basic bitch T-shirt. Sounds like a saying on a trendy tote. If I think this loud enough in my head, then some consumer driven spyware on my phone is likely to hear this nonverbal thought and turn it into a reality. I can't be the only one this has happened to before. Mark my words. Be on the lookout.

My phone buzzes with life. I prop it against my bare leg so I can easily read through the 17 messages from Trix.

Hey girl! Can't wait to see you.

When does your plane land?

OMG. OMG. OMG.

Emmy Lou! Where are you!

You better be dick deep right now girl.

Trix! I laugh into my coffee. I can't even read the rest. Trix is too much. It's why I love her. She can be that overdramatic, too-extra girly girl that guys still love enough to call a dude's girl. We've never shared this trait. I still have more in common with my loft.

I glance at the ancient alarm clock. 3:13. It's already 6:13 for Trix. Her night is over. I wonder if she too has consumed five to ten gulps of empty regret masquerading as tequila shots. I pull up the keyboard on my mini screen to type my response.

Trix! Can't wait to see you too.

I land at 11 AM your time.

OMG WHAT?

You know I was ;)

Wow. Emoticons. Add it to my time capsule arsenal of alarm clocks and coffee makers. You'd never know it was 2019.

Trix will answer as soon as she gets my message. I know she will. She can't help herself. As I scroll back to her 'OMG. OMG. OMG' my mind finds an eerie calm. I could guess 1000 things, but I know the only piece of gossip that would cause Trix to freak like this. My gut knows it.

I spend ten minutes surfing the social scene via my portable internet box of a phone. It's quality time with myself secretly stalking people I don't care about. Who from high school is pregnant. Who got what new job. Who got engaged. Spoiler Alert: 500 people got engaged.

I guess that's what happens at my age. 26. What else do you do for a quarter life crisis but get engaged? Fucking whacks.

3:20 AM

My bag is packed with the essentials: Bikini, shorts, headphones. My face potion aka make up. Self-esteem. Only thing left to do is get rid of my mid-summer's night companion. I glance at him sideways. Brown shaggy hair and cute ass dimples cover his face even when he's sleeping. Not bad, Emmy.

Coffee isn't helping my nerves right now, so I may as well have another cup. No more sleeping tonight. I cross my room and turn on the shower. The steam in the bathroom smells like my essential oils and helps to zen me out right now.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. I count these deep breaths as I do my best to hold onto the last trace of that eerie calm I felt earlier. I know what Trix is going to tell me.

I just don't know if I'm ready for it.

...

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