All this while Monica topples onto your bed totally oblivious, taking
off everything but her bra and panties like it is just you and her and the
door isn’t still wide open. You pull your face away from the kiss, and
when Megan opens her eyes she looks deeply insulted. “Whatever,” she
says, stumbling back a little. “Fucking DTR, like I even care about…
Monica hates you anyway, you fucking creep. Monica hates you anyway.”
You believe her. Monica has that right, and probably exercises it.
You don’t take it too personally though. Monica hates herself more than
anybody else – that’s in fact why she joined a sorority. Not to say that’s
why everyone does it, but she told you herself that’s why she did. Not for
sisterhood, but to rebrand herself. To reinvent the reality she lived in –
one she has never talked about with you before. Ever.
“Safety in numbers,” she said that first night you met her two
months ago, in this very room, before she gulped down yet another
fruity drink.
You start to think about all signs you looked right over in these
two months with Monica. The fact that she drinks like a Lost Generation writer. Her inability to converse or have sex with you while sober.
The fact that, after all this time, you haven’t heard anything about a
friend she