“I have news,” he says, his voice soft and cautious, like he’s tiptoeing. “I wanted you to hear it from me. I’m getting married.”

“That’s nice. I’m sure you and Nicolette will be very amused.” I gaze at the snowdrift which has crept up to molest the bottom edge of my bedroom window.

“No,” he says. “Look, Stacey, Ami and I, we’re —”

And then I just start roaring.

“It was all very organic,” Dave sputters. “It’s like the Universe just —”

“That wacky fuckin’ Universe! It has such a knack for this kind of thing,” I say, still half-cackling. “And talk about timing! Man, that universe of yours just nails the timing. Ami must be some proud of her manifesting powers these days. Betcha she stuck a picture of you up on her vision board, right there next to the big honkin’ princess-cut diamond ring she’s been trying to attract for six years.”

“Look, I swear, nothing was going on between Ami and me while we were together, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Know what, Dave? I don’t actually give a flying fiddler’s fuck either way. Thanks for the call. I wish the two of you all the happiness you deserve.” Which I roughly calculate to be not one goddamn iota.

“Stacey, I —”

“My name is Crow,” I coo. “Give my sincere disregards to your fiancée. Good luck with all that.”

It is deeply unsatisfying to hang up on somebody with a tap of the end call icon. Cranking out a thunderous, maniacal “Caaaaaaaaaaaaw!” right into the other person’s ear before biffing the phone into the back of the closet, on the other hand, is not without its pleasures. And I’ll take whatever I can get right now. The friendless, homeless, hairless, end-of-life trajectory taking shape here is not the swan song I expected. And the only thing I have at my disposal for misery reduction is the chipped-off two-thirds of a joint stashed in my purse from my birthday.

In sheer spite of the weather, I go for a walk to The Wharf. Mama got me all new winter gear for Christmas because she didn’t think my black leather pointy-toed high-heeled Gucci boots and my white three-quarter-length shearling coat — among the only pieces of clothing from my former life that I couldn’t bear to sell before I left — were gonna cut it out here.

“You’ll look some cute when they find you a week later, camouflaged in the snow like a friggin’ polar bear, frozen dead in a ditch after snapping your ankle on a walk down The Wharf!” she said, when I told her I didn’t need any new winter clothes. “And those flimsy little glitter gloves? What were you thinking?” I can’t bring myself to tell her the story of how I stole those gloves from the bin at the mall after my birthday, even though we could both use a laugh. I throw them in the garbage instead.

Now I am the reticent owner of a gargantuan lime-green parka, a pair of silver moon boots, and bright blue snow pants. To top the ensemble off, Mama went to her friend, Betty Who Knits, and got me a red-and-white striped wool hat, a yellow and orange zigzagged wool scarf, and a “pair” of wool mitts, the left one pink with purple polka dots and the right one purple with pink hearts. She didn’t need to spend money on me like that. I’ll likely only get one winter out of the stuff.