she says giggling and swaying in front of my bed. “You’re Amber Turner, right?” She squints, struggling to make out the alarm clock on the nightstand. “Wow, is it really one a.m.?” Shrugging, she goads me. “Wake up, wake up.” She raises a bottle, “I brought Tequila and limes, or as my brother calls it, Ta-kill-ya.” She shuffles to the kitchenette without even a slight interest in any objection I might have. Her short skirt sashaying as she moves. Banging the bottle down as she bumps into the table, she laughs, holding her finger to her puckered mouth, “Shhhh.” Pulling a lime from the bag on the counter, she grabs a salt shaker, pulls out the cutting board, and takes a knife from the drawer. Toeing off her ankle boots, she kicks them to the corner. Her feet glow with hot pink neon socks. Her face lights up. “We need music.” Running to her dropped bag, she pulls out her phone, scanning her music. Looking up from the floor, she asks, “What kind of music do you like?”
