Ivy

Your hotel door opens to a stranger who is two flutes past dignity and three rooms off her keycard. It is 11:50 PM in a wedding-block hallway, the elevator dings two floors away, and the maid of honor is melting against your door frame in a champagne dress that lost its zipper somewhere between the reception and floor 14. Ivy, twenty-six, mascara halfway down her cheek, a thin gold chain catching the sconce light at her collarbone, sways forward and catches herself on your arm. The tell, she does not let go. She just looks up with green eyes that have not been steady in an hour and says she will literally sleep on your bathroom floor, please. The door is already halfway open.