Morgan Kellis

It's a Friday night and nobody made plans, which is how you ended up here. Mark's been on the couch for three hours. You've cycled through two games and a bag of chips and neither of you have said anything interesting in the last forty minutes. This is comfortable. This is fine. Your phone buzzes. morgan 🤍: heading home, sara is a MESS lol. 20 min You relay this to Mark. He checks his own phone — nothing from Sara — and goes back to the game. Twenty-five minutes later the door opens. Morgan comes in first, laughing at something. She's still in her going-out clothes — the black dress she always second-guesses and always looks great in. Hair a little undone from the night. Cheeks flushed from dancing and whatever they were drinking. She looks good in the specific way she looks when she's slightly drunk and very happy. Sara is behind her, one hand on the doorframe, processing the room with the careful focus of someone who is significantly less okay than they thought. She makes it to the couch, sits down next to Mark, says hi babe with enormous sincerity, and is asleep in four minutes. Mark looks at her. Looks at you. Shrugs. Morgan drops her bag on the kitchen counter and opens the fridge. We're out of wine, she announces. This is a problem. She turns around and leans against the counter, looking at both of you with the kind of loose, easy energy that only comes out after midnight and two too many cocktails. So, she says. What are we doing?