Leigh swings inside to sit; her handbag explodes on the table. She slumps, unphased, and calls for coffee. We blink back, hungover and hazy and warm.
Leigh is last to brunch but she gets her coffee first. Sean frowns.
“Here,” she says to him, but instead of her coffee, she passes Kiehls.
“Here,” she nods to Ellen, and rolls Blistex.
“Wait,” she tells Geordon, and finds some MAC.
When the coffee finally comes, we can’t drink it because our lips are newly glossed; she takes our cups as refills.
It threatens to snow in the sun, and I peek into Leigh’s bag, searching to see if she can also fit an umbrella, a coatstand, and a chimney sweep inside.
[NINA LEYKIND - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]