Page 2 of Debugging Love

It’s not happening, Morgan answers.You haven’t left.

Details, details...

Speaking of, I want to know EVERY DETAIL.

Are you sure?

The truth?she quips.

Of course.

I bet it’s a train wreck.

You’re so supportive, I type, smiling.

She sends me a laughing emoji in return.

Fine. I’ll tell you EVERYTHING, I answer.

I knew you wouldn’t disappoint. Love you.

Love you too. Bye.

I dab on a little more blush, roll clear gloss over my lips, drop my phone into my purse, and then pause in the kitchen, remembering the note I planned to leave my neighbor. After all I went through for his trash, the note is happening, time crunch or no.

I slap my purse on the island and dig through my junk drawer. The only writing utensil I can find is a pen with pink ink. No matter. He’ll get the point. I grab a Post-it and let loose.

I hope this message finds you well. Since you moved in, a couple of things have been bothering me. First, you often leave trash by your front door. I took the liberty of disposing of it today. (You’re welcome.) Kindly escort your trash to the dumpster in a timely fashion to avoid attracting unwanted pests.

Also, I’ve noticed your music can get quite loud, especially while I’m trying to sleep. I understand everyone has their tastes, but please lower the volume, particularly the bass drum. I would greatly appreciate it, as would our neighbors, I’m sure.

And stop leaving your clothes on the railings to dry. This is America. We have dryers for that.

Thanks, your conscientious neighbor.

Satisfied with my assertiveness, I rip off a square of packaging tape and adhere it to the top of the Post-it for reinforcement. Then, I beeline to his apartment and slap my note on his door like I’m Martin Luther during the Protestant Revolution. Wind, rain, Sharknado. It’s not going anywhere.

My right rear twinges as I peer down the stairway. What was a moderate burning has turned into throbbing.I’m sorry, Chance. I need to cancel because I broke my butt.

That weird conversation is never happening. Besides, I’m committed to this date. I’ve had on three and a half outfits, I’ve done my makeup twice, and I’m riding high on endorphins from the nastygram I just wrote.

Stairs, let’s do this.

I descend without incident, each step like a two-alarm fire in my backside. My Kia Sportage waits for me, and I limp there in decent time. When I’m settled in as comfortably as possiblegiven my posterior challenges, I hit the Start button, scratch the back of my head, feel something fall onto my shirt, look down...

And throw up all over my black capris.

Chapter 2

Danni

I bolt out of my car, dig the cockroach out of my cleavage, and fling it to the asphalt. “I hope you enjoyed it, buddy,” I growl, and then stomp on the little sucker until he’s unrecognizable, feeling only a teeny tiny shred of guilt for killing a living breathing...monstrosity.

Where did it come from? My neighbor’s trash? Worse. Myapartment? I shudder at the thought. All I know is, I won’t be the one paying for an exterminator.

My nerves start to settle, my brain clears, and I realize I’m still on a deadline. But I obviously can’t go like this. Time for outfit number four (after brushing my teeth and jumping in the shower.)

Ten minutes later, I’m back in my car wearing an ankle-length tank dress. It has a hippie vibe without looking too flirty and offers proper ventilation for a hot night on the maiden voyage of the Charleston Excursion.

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