I take a deep breath. Lydia jumps on my dresser to snatch a glimpse at critter moving outside the window, probably a bird or squirrel, maybe something nocturnal like a rat. Beau is that critter for me. Another breath. I open the page.

I have to scroll awhile to find a picture of him. Most of the photos are of women, blondes, faces obscured by lens flare. A few group shots where no one is tagged, captioned, “The boys.” Scrolling, I robotically begin guessing people’s signs. I mostly guess Leo, Gemini, Aquarius—popular signs.

Finally, I find an image of a man curled up in a velvet chair with a tabby on his chest. He has black hair like mine and he’s thin like the models he photographs. My gaze lingers on the faint outline of his biceps under his skin, which is very fair, nearly translucent, like Winona’s. He almost looks like a male version of Winona Ryder, and I can hardly breathe.

Beau Rubidoux looks even better than I imagined. I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew there was something special about him. My gut was telling me, or maybe it was God.

DAWN.

I can hear Karen blasting The Office through the wall as I empty the rest of my Cook’s into my cup. It’s my second bottle of the day, which is fine for a Friday. I wish I had more. I want a cigarette, but I don’t want to leave the complex. The street will be littered with college students at this hour, and I don’t want them to try to flirt with me. Or maybe I do want them to flirt with me, but I’m afraid they won’t.

I want a lot of things I can’t have.

I want to be young and shiny like the new attendant at 7-Eleven. I want Tara to text me and say she made a mistake. I want Karen to turn down The Office. I want new episodes of 48 Hours. I want to smoke a cigarette on my couch. I want more Cook’s.

Tara has this app on her phone to order alcohol. She is savvy like that. She’s a few years younger than me and has a lump sum from her ex, and she can do a lot of things with the push of a button. I think about downloading one of those dating apps, swiping the night away, maybe meeting someone who can bring me a nice bottle of champagne and make me come. But as soon as I pick up my phone, something else happens.

I hope you’re happy, T.

I’m having an amazing Friday night without your rotten breath in my ear.

Are you drunk yet, glassy-eyed freak?

You could never love me or anyone like your old friend Tito.

Did you get another DUI yet? TGIF, baby!