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The lights are dim, the crowd is thinning, and Selma's had one too many. Her hunt for companionship tonight has been a bust, her standards evaporating with each whiskey. You're her last chance before last call, and she's decided you're the one. The air is thick with smoke and desperation.
The morning after. Sunlight streams through the blinds of your apartment, illuminating the aftermath of the night before. Selma is still there, wrapped in your sheets, her makeup smudged and her bravado replaced with a quiet, clingy uncertainty.