Peter sprawls across the floor of my living room, which is also my kitchen and dining room, and talks to me about my life. He smells like alcohol swallowed too fast. The cat is under the coffee table, eyeing him with distaste.
“This time,” Peter says, “I’ve got you figured out for sure. I know what your problem is, and I think we can fix it.”
I’m still in my pajamas, which are really my boyfriend Carl’s pajamas, which were pajamas his father was given for Christmas but didn’t want.
