“It’s been fifteen minutes since your text, Mum. I was at work.” I juggle my phone and takeaway as I grab my mail from the entrance hall.
She sighs dramatically. “It’s Friday night, Amy. How are you supposed to meet someone if you’re always working?”
Ah, yes, my nonexistent love life. Clearly ruined by a few extra hours of overtime.
Not the fact that I’m introverted, chronically ill, socially awkward, and mildly terrified of dating apps.
But sure, Mum. Let’s go with that.
“Is this really what you want?” she presses. “To be an accountant forever? Is that your dream?”
Ah. Nope.Apparently, today is the day she wants to havethisconversation.
I huff out a breath as I climb the stairs to my second-floor flat, my takeaway bag knocking against my thigh.
“What’s your 999 emergency?” I ask, dodging the question entirely.
Anyone who tells you that being an accountant is their lifelong dream is lying. And if they actually mean it, they need urgent psychiatric help.
I have dreams—too many, if anything. So many that I end up doing none of them.
I switch my phone to hands-free, set it on the kitchenette table next to my food, and shrug off my coat and shoes.
“Are you coming to Steve’s wedding?”
I frown at the phone. “That’s your emergency? Steve is mybrother. Of course I’m coming.”
Pea, my one-eyed tabby cat (full name: One-Eyed Pea), jumps onto the table and swats at my phone.
I grin, scratching behind his ear. “That’s my boy,” I mouth at him.
“I’m asking because you haven’t sent back your RSVP.”
I take my food out of the bag and glance at the fridge, where the RSVP card is still pinned under myPersefiacrest magnet. The irony is not lost on me.
“The RSVP isn’t due for another two weeks, and the wedding’s months away. I’m the groom’s sister and a bridesmaid… my presence is kind of mandatory at this point.” Very much against my will, might I add.
It was a pity request from Laura. I knew that.
Poor, single Amy.
Almost thirty andstillalone.
Not sure what’s up with these people, but apparently, turning the big 3-0 will render me undesirable perished goods.
Are women milk in this society?
They all act like being single is some kind of shamefulaffliction I have to carry around.
“It’s more about the head count,” Mum says. “Are you coming with someone?”
Ah. So that’s the real reason for her call.
I scan the room, trying to locate the bottle of wine I bought for the weekend. This is a discussion that requires alcohol.
“Amy?”
“Yes?” I unscrew the bottle and grab a small glass from the cupboard.
