The bar we had been at the previous night was a place on Eighth Street we had been going to since we were twenty-three. I had met her there at 7 PM. She had clearly been drinking before I arrived — she was already loose, already loud, and I realized, with the same resignation I had been feeling for about two years, that the night was going to be a long one. I had three drinks. She had — I counted, because she did not — seven.

By 10:15 PM I had already started the conversation I had been having with her for a year, which was, "Mia, let me drive you home, or let me call you an Uber, or please do not get in your car." She had said — as she always said — "I'm fine. I drove here fine. I'll drive home fine." I said, "No, you will not." She said, "Don't do this tonight." I said, "I'm not arguing with you. I'm getting an Uber. I'll drop you at home." She said, "Callie. I love you. But you are being insufferable. I'm going to drive myself home." And she got up, walked out of the bar, and left me at the table.