Sunday Mornings

By Allie Bushman

She woke up with her neck turned at an odd angle. The sun was peeking through the unfamiliar blinds. Her mouth tasted like stale beer and boy. Though the room was not familiar, the feeling was. She had been here before—too many times. The lump of a warm body beside her stirred.

She dressed in her heels and tight dress from the night before, smelling like spilled drinks and sweat.

“Where are you going?” the lump asked her.

“Can you Uber me a car?” she asked back, not answering his question.

“Fuck no—it’s Sunday morning. They’ll have surge rates.”