Rae’s alarm beeps, alerting them of their brunch plans, but Loren insists they stay in bed, savoring their Saturday, and Rae acquiesces though it is more joyful than that, like a half-cooked yolk slipping its whites. It’s 1 p.m. by the time they shower, which they do together, resulting in another tussle on the bed, and now it’s 3 p.m. Rae raids Loren’s fridge: four eggs, an old carrot that looks like a witch, a bunch of wilting kale. But there’s garlic. And flour, and chocolate chips, so soon there’s one small kale-garlic omelet and a tiny stack of chocolate chip pancakes they eat without butter or syrup.

Outside, rain slicks the streets, so while they had happy hour plans, they text their friends and say Loren’s under the weather, but really they’re under blankets on the couch, Loren rubbing Rae’s feet while they trash everything on Netflix. They open a bottle of cheap merlot and binge season two of Friends, hate-watching the saccharine lead-up to Ross and Rachel’s first kiss: all those locks Rachel turns, all that rain-infused lamplight.

It’s nine, somehow, and they’re vaguely hungry, but take-out takes forever, so they eat popcorn instead, finishing off the wine and a small chunk of cheddar Rae finds in the butter compartment. Feeling overstuffed with TV, they retreat to Loren’s bed where they read out loud to each other and Loren thinks this is what their life could be, if Rae moved in, but it’s only been three months, so she says nothing.

Rae’s phone sends up flares—friends dancing, wasted and happy. A bird flutters in her lungs: “Maybe we should go out? It’s only ten.” Loren pulls Rae close, kissing first clavicle, then neck: “Everything I need is right here.” They kiss, Rae setting the phone on the nightstand, the lung-bird piping up: is it?