I’ve had season two of The Wire out from Netflix, waiting to be enjoyed for the past two months. I was saving it for when Jim and I both had some mutual free time. (Watching The Wire together was one of our many ‘things’.) Actually, at one point during a lull in the fighting part of the breakup, we did sit down and watch the first episode of season two while eating pizza from Gino’s East and making amiable small talk. I guess we needed a break from the breaking-up. At work today, I realized that I might as well go on and watch it.

So that’s how I decided to spend my Friday night. I got home from work. Ordered some Thai takeout from Sweet Tamarind, and watched The Wire until around two in the morning.

On my way home from work, Kelly called and offered to come over in case I felt like I needed to be with someone. Kelly and Ray were my and Jim’s go-to-couple on weekends. As I spoke with Kelly, I wondered for a moment if Ray had called Jim to ask the same thing. I wondered if Jim had taken him up on the offer, and if they were at that very moment on their way to a seedy strip club in Hammond. Then I decided that maybe it’s best not to contemplate those sorts of things.

It was nice of her to call, but I felt like being lazy and not wearing a bra and eating directly out of takeout containers rather than on actual plates and possibly even using my shirt as a napkin. Those are the sorts of maneuvers best reserved for moments when you’re in a semi-darkened room alone. It also turned out that I wanted to drink three-quarters of the bottle of Sofia Champagne that’s been sitting in my fridge since New Year’s.

If Kelly had come over, she would have just wanted me to share.

On Saturday, I got up at an earliesh hour and went for a run. And then took a prolonged nap. And then realized upon waking up that I literally had nothing to do. The cleaning lady had come during the day on Friday so everything was meticulous – except for the takeout mess I’d left next to the sofa. The fridge was stocked with the groceries I’d gotten and ignored since Thursday. I wasn’t really in the mood to watch TV.

I entertained myself with video games for an hour on the new Xbox that Jim had convinced me to purchase by insisting that I needed it for the hi-def DVD player. As I sat there punching the buttons on the game controller, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t spoken to another human being for almost twenty hours.

I picked up my cell phone and called my sister.

“Hello?”

“Hey. What’re you doing?”

“Working. What’re you doing?”

“Playing Ms. Pacman.”

“How are you feeling? Are you okay?”

“I’m alright…Are you going out tonight?”

“No. I’m supposed to go see a movie with Dan.”

“Which one?”

“Blades of Glory.”

“I’ve heard that’s good.”

“Me too.”

“Well, I’m gonna run.”

“I’ll call you later.”

After hanging up, I realized that I didn’t really have any single friends anymore. At least not ones that I hung out with any sort of regularity. Most of my friends are either married, dating or engaged. I sat on the couch for a few minutes watching the flickering, muted TV screen. Trying to think of something to do.

That’s when it suddenly dawned on me that I did have one single friend.

Good friend from college, Mark. And, even better, not a friend that I share with, or know through, Jim. Mark and I were in the same major together and always seemed to be in the same classes. And he dated my sophomore year college roommate for about six months. Mark and I never go out together on weekends, but we email back and forth all the time at work. And meet up for lunch at least two or three times a week.

I called him.

“Mark here. Go,” he answered in a clipped tone.

I rolled my eyes.

“You’re so lame. It’s Elizabeth.”

“What’s up?”

“Not much.”

“Oh.”

“What about you?”

“I’m getting ready to watch all three episodes of the original Star Wars trilogy. I’ve tivoed them all. It’s going to be awesome.”

“Interesting.”

“Have you ever watched them all in a row?”

“No.”

“Do you want to come over?”

I kind of did.

We got off the phone, and I grabbed a sweater and headed outside. Mark lives a mile and a half away so I decided to walk. Once there, we both settled on opposite ends of his low slung, bacheloresque, micro-fiber sofa and he started the first movie. As we were finishing up the ‘In a galaxy far, far away’ jazz, he abruptly sat up and hit pause.

“You want some wine?”

“Yes,” I said.

“What do you think best compliments Star Wars? White? Red? Pinot Noir? Burgundy?”

“I think Pinot Noirs and Burgundies might be the same thing.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t a Burgundy just a Pinot Noir from France?”

“I don’t know,” he said shrugging.

“Let’s do the Burgundy,” I suggested, “I’ve heard that Burgundies go well with ewok.”

“The ewoks don’t show up until Return of the Jedi. That’s why girls always like that one the best – because they think the ewoks are cute. That’s about four hours away. We’ll probably be done with the bottle by then.”

“Well...then let’s do the Pinot Noir.”

He considered this momentarily before opening the wine and pouring it into two minimalist style juice glasses. A little over six hours later, I was drunkenly confirming to Mark that Return of the Jedi was indeed my favorite of the three.

“It’s not just because I’m a girl,” I clarified, “I think that probably plot wise it’s the be-”

I was interrupted by the ringing of my phone.

Jim.

I pressed the ignore button and glanced back up to continue.

Mark was busy checking his own phone messages, and when he finished said, “Wanna go out?”

“Sure,” I answered standing up and stretching, “I really need to brush my teeth, though.”

We met some of his friends at a bar on Halsted called Landmark, and, half an hour in, I noted that I was the only female in the group. The wine had erased any proclivities I possess towards shyness, so it didn’t really matter. And they were all really nice. And clearly there to meet girls. I tried to be a good wingman, but, in addition to suppressing my shyness, the wine had mitigated my ability to formulate legible sentences.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of my phone vibrating across my night stand and the bright afternoon sun streaming in across my forehead. And as my thoughts took their time schlepping into focus, it dawned on me that I was lying in the nude under the chenille throw blanket I usually keep on my sofa. I never, ever sleep naked. My comforter was on the floor next to my bed.

I picked up the phone and blearily registered that it was Mark’s name on the caller id. We chatted about the funny things that happened last night, and, I suppose, technically that morning. He sounded chipper and alert.

“What are you doing right now?” I asked.

“Working.”

“On a Sunday?”

“I’m really important.”

“Ugh,” I responded hoarsely, “I have to go now and die.”

“Alright. Smell you later.”

“You too.”

I stood up and tried to stretch. Pinpoint lasers of pain were busily ripping through my head, and I briefly wondered if that’s how it feels when your brain cells die off en mass. Or when you’re about to have an aneurism. Last night’s jeans and other articles were arranged in a trail from the front door of my apartment to my bedroom in a way that would have made Hansel and Gretel exceedingly jealous.

After a shower and some breakfast, I felt rejuvenated until I noticed that it was one o’clock on Sunday afternoon, and I couldn’t think of anything to do. I got up with a sigh to put on my jogging shoes, but stopped when I realized it'd started to rain.