I like it better upstairs; it’s darker, quieter, and I don’t know anyone. A bedroom door is open—literally tied open, with some kind of sheet contraption fastened around a radiator, which I’d probably be curious about if I were sober—and a bunch of people are hanging around inside, talking. Nobody seems to mind when I drop into a beanbag chair and pull out my phone,
Nooo please phoebe not Reggie’s room!
