Free Breakfast in Stilettos by Liz Kingswood

Nothing that a good Catholic priest, or better yet, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, couldn’t help me exorcise. Clearly the Google gods were channeling Loki this evening.
    8. Emily needs a catchy slogan.
    Now that was a solution worthy of note. When all else fails, make up a catchy slogan, especially one that doesn’t mean anything. I remember running for student council in college. Emily Royce, She ’ s Our Choice. Nothing else rhymed except voice and hoist . Strangely enough I’d won and spent the next year with a wild group of women led by our President—a 300 pound RN student who assigned new meaning to the phrase “political parties.” To this day I wonder whether the election was rigged. I think the President preferred me to my opponent, a very outgoing young man. He wouldn’t have survived the perpetual Bacchanalia. Or perhaps I really did win, as I was dating the president of the Ski Club—the largest club on campus. He insisted that everyone in the club go vote for me. This made me extremely uncomfortable—what sort of favors did my main supporter expect?—and I knew I wasn’t cut out for politics. I wanted to win on merit, whatever that was.
    9. Emily needs to be able to express her feelings to someone she trusts.
    This drove me to take a large sip of wine. In the midst of all sorts of fun, number 9 sounded serious. Even frightening, because at that moment, I knew there wasn’t really anyone I trusted enough to share my feelings. I suddenly had the same sensation you get when you realize you’ve just stepped in dog poo, but before you look at your shoe to see the real damage. I read on to the next, a little desperate for levity.
    10. Emily needs to find something quick.
    Number 10 drove a nail into the coffin of my fun. I knew with all seriousness that this was true. I needed to talk to someone right away. Someone who could help me sort out my feelings about Frank as well as the strange undercurrents that this latest story was stirring in my psyche. I thought of talking to Sal, to my mom, to Kenner, even to Asshole Bob. But I couldn’t be honest with any of them. They hated Frank and that’s all they would tell me.
    I knew at that moment that there was only one person I could talk to. I picked up the phone and dialed that old familiar number. After three rings, Frank picked up.
     

 
     
Chapter 11: Friday Night Fight
     
    As I drove around, trying to find a parking spot near his apartment, I was definitely having second thoughts about seeing Frank. Frank lived in the upscale downtown enclave of Belltown. Only ten years ago, Belltown had been a haven for starving artists, musicians and the homeless. The old pubs and porn shops had been replaced by overpriced restaurants and exclusive boutiques. Of the original residents, only the homeless remained, and even they seemed to dress better.
    Frank didn’t live there because he could afford it. He rented a room from a very rich, middle-aged, gay lawyer named David Schulman. David owned a spectacular penthouse with a commanding view of Puget Sound. I used to love to sit in front of the bay doors in Frank’s bedroom and watch the ferries go back and forth as we drank glasses of cheap Bordeaux.
    I never could figure out the relationship between Frank and David. They weren’t really friends—at least not if you listened to the way they argued. And Frank didn’t have homosexual tendencies, at least none that I could discern. They weren’t exactly the Odd Couple, since Frank wasn’t a slob, but they were an odd combo. The only thing they had in common was a love of expensive cognac. David could afford it, and Frank was happy to drink it without feeling the slightest hint of guilt.
    After my fifth time around his block without finding a spot, I settled on a pay lot and took a small hoard of one dollar bills, rolled them tightly into the origami burrito shape displayed on the pay stand, and shoved them through the eye-of-the-needle slot. Having piously offered