I see Carmichael approaching. She is 45 minutes late. Typical. What is not typical is that her usually stressed-out stride is relaxed. In fact, she’s got a shit-eating grin on her face. Did she sneak in a yoga class? Get a facial? Something looks different. Maybe she changed her meds. She rushes over and gives me a hug.
“I just had sex with E.L.,” she blurts out. I am speechless. She is my best friend. And she had sex. With her husband. I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the back. I am tempted to throw one of us off the nearby balcony.
“Morning sex?” I manage. It comes out more hostile than I plan, though Carmichael barely notices. Why should she? She just had morning sex.
“Oh my God, yes! Morning sex. Like a high school senior. It is too incredible. I had sex with my husband and I liked it.” I stare at her, incredulous. I haven’t had sex, morning or otherwise, in three months. Neither had she. I trusted her. I know it’s a free country and people have sex in it. Apparently even my best friend. But still. How dare she?