Greg looked out over the bar of the pass-through, to see Brigid in sweats, dragging herself painfully across the floor towards the kitchen.
"What ho, a zombie!" he said.
"Please," Brigid croaked, almost desperately, as she gripped at a stool leg to pull herself up. Her eyes were crunched in agony, but the rest of her face was completely slack as if it just took too much energy to have an expression. "I've got to get out of here by 7:30. Some moron set up an 8:00 proposal meeting ... I set four different alarms to get myself up ... I just had the fight of my life to roll out of bed onto the floor to get myself moving. God as my witness, I'll never say a bad thing about you again, if you'll just make something, anything, for breakfast. If I make it myself, it'll take forever! I've got to go by 7:30!"
Greg raised his eyebrows in apology. "I hate to tell you this," he said, as she succumbed to gravity again, "but it's 8:15."
There was a long moment of silence. "Fuck," Brigid said finally, and fell asleep on the rug.
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