Margarita

She forgot the umbrella she had with her last night. It was probably in her friend Cheryl’s car, right after they met this guy Jordan, and which said “no problem” a lot, to which she and Cheryl gasped at, nervous in their margaritas. Jordan was a suitor of Cheryl, and as Cheryl puts it, “it started with a random phone call.” Maybe the umbrella was there, god, how could she forget? Maybe it was because she was thinking of the same thing her mother thinks of her, “you’re almost thirty.”