We’d reached that portion of brunch talk where we were past the formalities and right in the middle of real talk. You know, somewhere between your 3rd and 4th pitcher of mimosas where you’ve stopped saying the things that you should say and finally start saying the things you’ve been dying to say to someone who wouldn’t judge you.
We had done the impossible; somehow we’d managed to wrangle impossible schedules spanning multiple cities and encompassing careers and husbands and travel plans and kids and family emergencies and every big and small thing in between that could possibly go wrong and carve out a few hours to get drunk over French toast. So, we could at least be honest with each other.
After waxing philosophical on the idea of one of our friends having an open marriage (landing solidly on it can’t work for everybody but it would work for them) Bambi, a friend who’d been uncharacteristally quiet, cleared her throat tentatively.