Because no matter how much we want it, the dream of the fairy tale can’t last forever. At some point, we all have to grow up and choose the next best thing.
But what thehellare we supposed to do when it doesn’t choose us back?
I waketo the sound of a lock being twisted and roll over into a pile of pillows. I must have fallen asleep on the couch again. I hear the deadbolt unlatch first. Is someone breaking into my apartment?
In my confusion, I grab the object closest to me without disturbing the pile of blankets I’m buried under. Unfortunately, it’s less of a weapon and more of a stale hunk of bread. I can already see the headline: jobless, painfully single Chicago woman fends off would-be attacker with four-day old baguette.
The latch clicks and my door swings open.
“Good morning, sunshine!” the burglar/murderer trills in the most cheerful octave known to man.Marianne.It’s not her usual M.O. to drop in unannounced, but then again, I haven’t seen my phone in hours.
“Oh my god,” I hear her exclaim in horror as she steps inside. Something soft and crinkly drops to the floor. “Stella? Stella!”
“Present,” I call listlessly, lifting my left hand from the rubble of blankets. A few seconds later, my head also emerges.
“Thank God,” Marianne says, surveying my biohazard of anapartment. I like to consider myself a minimalist, but in the few weeks since I basically ruined my life, I haven’t had the energy to do anything beyond the confines of my sofa.
“I thought you’d been robbed!”
I rub my eyes to see that Marianne has come armed with coffee and pastries from Toto’s, my favorite coffee shop. But not even the promise of a fresh croissant can rouse me from my pit of despair. She’s dressed like she’s just been to a workout, but the vaguely sunny haze coming through my window tells me we’re still in work hours. Is it the weekend already?
“Oo la la, Stella,” Marianne teases as she holds up the marinara-splashed bra that’s hanging over my dining chair. “Did you have a party without me?”
“Give me that,” I lean over the back of the couch and snatch it from her, tucking it under the layers of blanket I’m snuggled in. The one perk of having an apartment the size of a shoe box? Everything’s within reach.
“If you want your paws on my undergarments,” I tell her, “you’ll have to bid for them on the dark web like everyone else.”
“Glad to see your sense of humor is still intact,” she says, holding out the dark roast to me like a peace offering. “You look like you could use this.”
“Thanks.”
Marianne lowers herself carefully onto the couch, shoving my headphones and over-filled journal to the side. I don’t even want to know what I look like right now—my unruly brown hair is probably so matted I’ll have to shave it off. Maybe the nuns will take it as a sign of my devotion when I plead with them to join their convent.
“Seriously, Stell,” Marianne lowers herself carefully onto the couch, shoving my headphones and over-filled journal to the side. When she sits down, I can almost see the outline of her baby belly starting to show.
“I know you’re depressed, but it’s beenthree weeks.I thinkyou’ve overextended the traditional shitty job mourning period.”
“Itwasn’ta shitty job,” I wave her off. “And I don’t need a lecture. I know I’m a pig, and I’ve accepted it.”
Marianne gasps.
“How dare you degrade my favorite animal! This is beyond barn-dweller status. You’re one step away from ending up on an episode ofHoarders: Chicago.”
“Do you think that pays?”
Marianne smacks me with the paper-bagged croissant she’s holding, and I snatch it from her.
“Let me paint you a picture here, my sweet, naive friend,” I start as I take a massive, buttery bite. “Do you know how many job opportunities are out there for art history majors?”
“Stella—“
“Last week, the Museum of Contemporary Art turned me down for a volunteer docent position because they were looking for someone with ‘more experience.’ I have a masters degree and I’m not even qualified to workfor free!”
The last words come out as half choke, half cry as I stuff half of the croissant into my mouth at once. Marianne grabs the bag back from me as the flakes rain over my Tom Petty t-shirt.
“Ok, you need to chill,” she says firmly. “It’s the new year! You should be celebrating, not doom scrolling job boards and drowning in unwashed laundry.”
Just then, my phone dings from some unknown location across the room—probably tucked under a sweatshirt or in the back of my refrigerator.
