Shrugging on my warmest coat, I slip my feet into my rain boots and head toward Westlake Center. The tree trunks in the square are painted cobalt blue for the Seahawks, and as I weave my way between them, I catch sight of a stand selling mulled wine and roasted chestnuts. I’ve already had too much to drink today, but one cup of mulled wine won’t hurt. As I wait in line, I tell myself that they probably cooked all of the wine out of it.

I order a large and carry my steaming paper cup toward the shops on the other side of the street. I’m about to cross when I hear my name being called. I turn around and search the faces around me, surprised. I don’t know many people in the city. Most everyone has their heads bent against the rain, and as I stall on the sidewalk, they push past me in a herd, crossing the small intersection.

And then I see her, her impossibly perfect blond hair tucked beneath a beanie and then the hood of a bright red raincoat. She looks innocent and eager, like a hipster version of Little Red Riding Hood. “Hey, I thought that was you.” Lauren approaches, her face pink from either exertion or cold. She rests a hand on my shoulder as she bends over to catch her breath. “I ran to catch up,” she says. “You were in your own world, didn’t hear me when I called.”

“Sorry,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. The light has changed back to red and I missed my chance to cross. Great. That means I’ll be stuck at this intersection with Lauren for another few minutes.

“Um...so what are you doing here?” I ask.

I half expect her husband, John, to appear through the crowd, cheesy grin plastered to his face. John is forever smiling, begging the world to like him. I’m a good guy! Look at me smile! He wears beanies, too, always with three perfect curls strategically hanging over his forehead. I look around wearily. The last thing I need right now is their couple-ness.

“Oh, I thought I’d come walk around the center for a bit,” she says. “Grab something to eat.”

“Where’s—”

“Working,” she says quickly. Someone bumps into me and my mulled wine sloshes out of the cup and onto my jacket. I stumble, unable to right my footing. Lauren grabs me before I can fall. I smile at her gratefully as I right myself.

“Whoa,” she says. “How many of those have you had?” She means to be funny, and of course she has no idea that I’ve spent the greater part of my day drinking, but something in her voice makes me angry.

“You don’t have to be so goddamn judgmental,” I snap. I dump the rest of the wine onto the sidewalk and march the empty cup over to the trash. There is no room for it, the garbage can overflowing. I set the empty cup on top of it and return to wait for the light. Lauren looks like I’ve slapped her, the smile falling off her face. I feel guilty right away. She was being really nice, and here I am, spewing my frustration all over the place.

“I’m sorry,” I say, lifting a hand to my head. “I had a really shit day. Look, would you like to get a drink?”

She nods without a word, and suddenly outside of my own troubles I see something else on her face. She’s not happy, either; there’s something wrong. I sigh. The last thing I need is to be someone else’s shrink today.

“All right, then,” I say, glancing around. “There’s a tap house up that way, or we can go to a real bar, one with the hard stuff.”

She contemplates this for a few seconds before nodding her head decidedly. “Hard stuff.”

“Good,” I say. “I know where all the best places are. Follow me.”

I lead her past the tourist spots and well-lit restaurants to Post Alley, where I swing a left. We have to pass the gum wall, and Lo crinkles her nose at the sickly sweet smell of half-chewed bubble gum.

“Gross,” I hear her say. “I can’t believe this is a tourist spot. What is even wrong with people?”

“You’re being uptight again,” I call over my shoulder. A teenage girl to our right pretends to lick the mounds of gum as her friend takes a picture, and Lauren shudders.

The foot traffic thins out and soon we’re the only ones walking down the alley. Lauren presses close to me like she’s afraid we’re going to be mugged.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask. Her mouth is buried beneath a scarf; the only thing visible is her red-tipped nose.

“Four years.”

I nod. Four years is relatively new to the city. You’re still trying to figure out which streets to avoid and frequenting chain restaurants.

“You were born here?” she asks.

“Oregon, but my parents moved here when I was little.”

I lead her down another alley and stop in front of a grass wall. “You okay with this place?” I ask. Lo eyes the place warily, then nods.

The interior of the bar is lit by neon pink lights that run along the walls and the ceiling. It’s the type of place one might call seedy. The first time we came here, Seth said the place had eighties porn vibes. It was one of the few times we were out in public together, and as Lauren and I walk through the doors it hits me that he probably brought me here because there was little chance of being seen by anyone he knows.

We find a little table in the corner and begin the task of unwrapping ourselves from scarves and jackets. I try not to look at her because I don’t know why I’m doing this, except there is something sad in her eyes, something that matches how I feel. I tell myself that if she brings up our lack of children I’m going to leave. I order shots to start. We need something to cut the edge, and fast.

“What do you normally drink?”

I expect her to say rosé or champagne, but she says, “Whiskey,” matter-of-factly and then downs her shot like she’s at a college frat party. Nice.

We order fries, and by the time our food arrives, we’ve had three shots each and are sufficiently sloshed. Lauren can’t figure out how to work the lid on the ketchup and, in a fit of giggles, drops the bottle on the floor. She retrieves it and wedges the lid open with her teeth.

“And you thought I was uptight,” she says, eyeing me over the bottle.

“You’re drunk,” I tell her, dipping a fry into the ketchup and folding it into my mouth. “Your picture-perfect life doesn’t allow you to be anything but uptight.”

Lo snorts. “So perfect.” She closes her eyes, an exaggerated expression on her face. “It’s not what you think.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I know she’s had more than her fair share to drink, but I don’t stop her when she begins to talk. If she’s going to regret telling me things, she can do it tomorrow when I’m not around.

“Do you really want to know?”