I woke up with a start. The TV was really loud. I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep, but judging by the small pool of drool that had trickled down my arm and settled into the sofa cushion, I’d been out a while. Checking the clock, I saw it was past two, and realized I had slept through my plan to call Dave and let him know that I had come home from my beach adventures and hadn’t gotten into any trouble. We’d talk in the morning. Leaving the couch, I used my night vision to navigate down the hall to my bedroom. Lucy was waiting, an inky stain of fur against my duvet. At least I wasn’t getting into bed alone.

I dreamt about losing my new laptop. I lost everything: the script I had been working on, all my addresses, my date book, and my huge iTunes library. What a nightmare.

The next morning Dave and I went down the hill to get breakfast at Viktor’s Coffee Shop. Dave always said you really know you’re “a half of a two” when you have someone to get brunch with on a Sunday. I went to church with him plenty of times. Trying to be a trouper, I’d even bought two conservative dresses and a pair of sensible shoes suitable for wearing next to him in the pew. I’d always resented the shoes; they reminded me of something the mother of the bride would wear. So I’d sit next to Dave and stand on cue with my feet sweating in my closed-toe shoes, longing for a waffle and latte.

Judging from Dave’s just-rolled-out-of-bed shirt and jeans, I could tell he had indeed skipped services today.

“So, how was your night?” he asked as he carefully cut the egg yolks away from the egg whites and moved them to the side of the plate. Dave always ate his eggs that way. Then he would dip his toast into the yolks and mop everything into his mouth.

“It was good. We had a good time. Even though I live in Los Angeles, I sometimes forget there’s an ocean here. You know how I never go west of the 405,” I replied.

“So who was there?”

Fuck Julia Roberts—I could have won an Oscar for this performance. “Oh, just the girls. Lauren, Ina, and Rachel who works with me on the show.”

“No guys?”

“No, no guys,” I assured him. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s just kinda out of character for you to go out like that. All night I imagined you driving down Ocean Avenue in your new fancy car, with your sunroof open, having a great time.”

“Are you mad that I went out? You’re the one who wanted to stay home and work on a Saturday night—and what’s your beef with my BMW?”