There was no way it was real. That name. Dara. That little string of numbers written next to it, quickly but with care. It was all a fiction of some sort. I couldn’t let myself fall into believing otherwise. She was a stripper, the woman who had written out those letters on the back of this business card and pressed it into my hand. Strippers were professional liars. That wasn’t a judgment against them, just a fact. There...

I think I was more nervous about being the “Best Woman” for Glen’s wedding than Glen was about getting married. Which made some sort of sense, I guess. All Glen had to do that week was show up and marry the love of his life. I, on the other hand, had to put together a perfect sendoff for my best friend’s bachelorhood, while explaining to everyone I interacted with along the way what a “Best Woman” was, and how the bride c...

“I wish I were going with you,” I complained, while I watched Dara put on her makeup for an afternoon shift at the Angel Room club. I was lying on the couch of her apartment, wrapped in a knitted blanket, trying to preserve the warmth she had left behind in the cushions for a few minutes longer. The TV was dark, the obscure rom-com she’d shared with me this morning long finished. “Can you imagine?” Dara giggled, pausing h...

I don’t have the kind of parents a girl can bring a girlfriend home to. Neither does Dara. What she does have is a very close and active group of friends who hold a biweekly “Bitch Night.” Which I’m now invited to. Dara issued this invitation over breakfast in the course of a few casual sentences, and I accepted, all before I had the chance to realize quite how huge a deal this was. Or, in Dara’s estimation, before I had...