Tyra slept late, woke to the sound of rain, and used both hands to hold her skull together. Curtains made a gray square in the dimness, and she imagined cool, wet rain, the patter of it on her face. It didn’t help. Curling into a ball, Tyra tried to stitch together the pieces of her night. She’d argued with Sara—nothing new—then stormed out, angry. That was early. Then what? Happy hour at the Tiki Lounge? That seemed right. Then pizza at Shakey’s, down the block, and ladies’ night at some club downtown. She remembered an empty dance floor, a seriously hot bartender, and some old guy making a play from the stool beside her. She had visions of cab rides and other dance floors and other bars. Eventually, she remembered the dude.

“Oh shit, the dude…”

That’s what she’d called him. He had a name, but it was something vanilla like Alex or Winston or Brad. He’d introduced himself with a name and a drink, and she’d said, Thanks, dude. He’d been tall—she remembered that—a tall guy with Jesus hair, a silk shirt, and something like a bearskin rug on his chest. After four tequila shots, Tyra had run fingers through that rug, and said, Dude … Later, there’d been dancing and kissing, a blur of streetlights from a van with shag carpet on the dash. It was a dude’s van. She remembered saying it. Dude, this is a dude’s van. She’d said the same word when he pumped up Jimi Hendrix, and when he lit a joint, and when he ran off the road trying to make the turn for Dairy Queen. It seemed the word had been her language last night. She’d laughed it, and said it soft, and panted it twice when he went downtown, her fingers curled in all that hair. Dude, dude …

But the dude was gone, and Tyra wasn’t sad about it. Out of bed, she drew the curtain and looked out at gray rain, a gray sky. She already wanted a drink.

No, she decided. Not today.

Pulling clothes from a pile on the floor, Tyra crept from the room. Her favorite diner was only two blocks down, but it felt like miles. Even after coffee, eggs, and cheese grits, she still felt less than human. But the rain had dwindled. The sun was trying.

She still couldn’t handle Sara.

A movie made better sense. That was another six blocks, but she made it in time for the early show, stopping at the posters to consider the choices.

THE GODFATHER

DELIVERANCE