Liz was back in New York after a year in Grenada.
“Sushi,” she told me, matter of factly. “I need sushi before I go back. More sushi than you know.”
So that’s how we ended up wasted at a sushi restaurant in the Village on a weekday afternoon.
I crawled out of bed around 2pm, threw on a pair of jeans, and dragged Liz to all-you-can-eat sushi. For another five dollars, the waitress informed us, you can also do all-you-can-drink beer or wine. We giggled like little kids and nodded. Bring it on.
An hour later, we were pushing pieces of spicy tuna crunch rolls around in soy sauce, off the table, onto our laps. Wine sloshed over the rim the glass onto my hand, and we blathered on about our childhood.
Hours later, we forced ourselves out to Times Square to meet her fiancé.
I finally made it back to my apartment in one piece and passed out, face down, on my bedspread. I woke up to my Blackberry buzzing in my outstretched hand and moaned. I was still in my peacoat, my hat, my scarf, my suede boots, my gloves. Even my handbag remained draped on my shoulder.
I wiped away some drool and picked up the phone. I was late to a party in Brooklyn. Well, here I was all ready to go. I wiped the corners of my eyes, brushed my teeth, and went back out, silently vowing never to eat sushi again.