Molly

3

"So how are we supposed to be writers, exactly?" I asked with a groan, flopping down onto my bed. My computer nearly slid off of it, before I scrambled to catch it. I sunk into my thick comforter, not too far before reaching the stiff dorm mattress and feeling a spring give me a half-massage.

"Seriously," Molly replied, not looking up from her nail polish strokes. "I adore writing but I have a life outside of being cooped up and learning 'fun vocabulary'." I could just hear the always present sarcasm in her voice, her slightly nasally voice that made her seem like a perfect "damsel in distress" type.

"I have no idea what to do," I went on, furiously slamming my hands down onto my keyboard. "Do they have any tutorials for getting rid of writer's block?"

Molly pushed the brush back into the nail polish bottle, screwing it shut. She looked up at me and shook her head, lip upturned. "Don't worry, my dear," she began, flapping her hand at me in a way that I couldn't tell if she was trying to dry her nails or get my attention. "You won't be alone. I'll be here and together we'll recite some Bronte, some Lear, and then class dismissed."

"Sounds good."

She blew on her nails. "Okay. Come on, time for drinks after work."

"What? I'm still spinning after last night."

"Come on, it sounds so grown-up: home from office, off for cocktails with your best friend."

"Yeah, I guess so," I mumbled, shutting my computer and rolling off the bed to my feet.

"You have to wonder if Faulkner, Fitzgerald, and Hemingway knew the pleasure of three-for-one happy hour?" Molly shouted out, halfway into her half of the closet as she searched for a dress.

I shrugged, lifting my arms over my head to stretch. "Probably not. Hemingway shot himself in the head."

Molly pulled herself out of the closet, along with a bright red dress covered in sequins. "Oh! You made a joke! I'm so proud of you." She gave me her signature toothy smile as she began to undress, stepping into the sparkly red fabric as I picked up my brush.

I flipped my head upside down, flinching slightly as the bristles pulled on my tangles. "I must still be drunk."

"Well then, no reason to let the party stop. Let's go."

It was fun... at first. Being around her was like spinning in a circle until you're dizzy—that weird blend of elation and confusion. But soon it seemed like Molly wouldn't stop, couldn't slow down. And the dizzy feeling started to make me sick.