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AUTUMN IN VERMONT was a sight for sore eyes. Most people wouldn't understand the simplicity of the first November snow, the soggy leaves floating in puddles, dragging out the crackling space heater that you should've thrown out years ago. It was a time for coziness and spiked apple cider, and those pumpkin martini drinks with the cinnamon sugar rim –
Sloane hummed at the thought of it.
She was one of those crazy people who didn't mind getting up at the ass crack of dawn. Watching the sunrise with a cup of coffee in her hands was one of life's greatest pleasures. And beside that mug was a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal and the half-finished bottle of Smirnoff she somehow didn't down last night. Not many realized just how beneficial a shot of vodka was in the morning, but Sloane Bernstein did. She'd pat herself on the back if one hand wasn't holding the Smirnoff and the other grasped an old shot glass.
Her apartment was small, but decent, located just off the beaten path in the teensy, tiny town of Dover. She liked it because the silence wasn't deafening, and she got to keep her little Christmas tree up all year round, and there wasn't anyone to criticize any of her life choices. Oh, and of course, for the pleasant view of autumn in Vermont. She lived in the one-bedroom with her orange tabby cat, Jerry. He was named after Jerry Garcia, her dad's favorite guitarist.
That Monday morning was brisk, but Sloane liked Mondays. She enjoyed starting off the week with two shots in the morning, not just one, before pulling on a chunky, black turtleneck and olive-green corduroy pants. Her light brown hair was left in slightly-greasy strands, just about reaching the middle of her chest, and she was lucky that she had the energy to comb it back into a ponytail. Even though her vision already felt blurry, she drove to work with a lazy smile and an ambitious attitude. A rain shower passed through as she drove down the winding path, finally coming up on one of the few streetlights in town. It took a special kind of person to really appreciate the simplicity of a town like Dover. Sloane was born in Queens, New York to a pathetic excuse of a mother and a father who died too young. She was used to hustle and bustle. But Dover was the exact opposite, and that's what she loved about it. As soon as she became of age, Sloane made sure to get out of the huge shithole that was Queens in favor of Vermont.
