Girls Night
by Lindsey Danis
Anka told me her wife did work during lockdown. She failed to mention their new kitchen is worthy of a spread in Upstater. White marble counters gleam with gold veins. Overhead, blown glass pendant light shimmer like giant bubbles.
“They’re European,” she tells me.
“Your lights are better traveled than I am. I can’t believe you hid this from me,” I add before she can hit me with a Brené Brown quote about self-deprecation.
“I kept it for you. As a treat. You should see the look on your face.” Leaning against the kitchen island, white tank sweater tucked into soft linen pants, Anka is casually glamorous. “Pick your jaw off the floor before you drool,” my best friend teases.
We’re masked, so she can’t see my expression, but I guess Anka knows me that well. “It’s incredible. Seriously. Is Reese home? I can tell her my—”
“She’s working. You know how she gets when she’s in the thick of it; there’s no talking to her. Come on, sit. Let’s catch up.” She motions toward the vegan leather banquette.
“Another gut job for deep-pocketed urban exiles?”
Anka told me once about a particularly prickly client, and I swear, I don’t know how her wife does it. Money, Anka told me. For enough cash, her wife will play the game, subcontracting labor to a pirate band of visionary theater crew types and formerly incarcerated men with knuckle tattoos and patience for detail work.
“No, we’re doing a flip. We were lucky we offered before the market went bonkers. It’s one of those Victorian kit homes with original wallpaper and no insulation.” Anka closes her eyes and presses her fingertips into her brow bone. She draws a deep breath, pulls her hands away and resettles her blonde bob behind her ears.
“Reese has been pulling fourteen-hour days undoing the half-assed work someone else put into it, bringing the electric up to code, ripping out butter-yellow tile from the master bath,” she continues. “The place is a mess but it has good bones. If you two want a starter home, let us know before we list it. Which will be sometime next year at this rate.” Anka knocks the table; the noise sets the dogs barking.
“Maybe. It’ll be on the same timeline as my wedding,” I joke.
When Anka swivels to me, eyebrows cocked, I realize it didn’t sound like a joke. It sounded needy. She places a hand on my leg. “Did you two have another fight?”
“Not exactly.” I look at her manicured nails, ivory with a glitter tip, so I don’t have to meet her crisp blue eyes. “He’s stressed about the shop renovation.”
“He told Reese it was going so well when they ran into each other at Lowe’s!”
Seth didn’t tell me he ran into Reese. It’s not a big deal, I guess. “Yeah, well. It’s not.” My voice cracks. I press a hand to my face, remembering the way it felt to be wrapped in Seth’s arms last night. He held me with such tenderness, telling me in every way but one how much he needs me.
“Oh, Nicole.” Anka puts her arms around me, squeezing until I feel it in my bones. I tighten my grip, emotional to have won an ordinary pleasure after the isolation of quarantine. “Wine will fix this. Open a bottle while I feed the children,” she says, meaning her Schipperkes. “Glasses are to the left of the sink. There’s white in the fridge and red on the rack in the pantry.”
I’m not a dog person. Blame it on the half-blind barn dog who mistook a carrot for a bone and nipped my fingers. While she loads dog dishes with organic grain-free kibble, I poke about the pantry. The wine rack is loaded with artsy wines made from obscure grape varietals. I pick a Sangiovese with a label that looks like a toddler’s crayon art and open the bottle. The wine smells earthy, with notes of currant and something sour.
“Good choice,” Anka appraises when we’re side by side in the banquette. She clinks her glass to mine and says, “Get it all out.”
Anka is a blurter. She doesn’t always think how her words will land. One glass—okay, two—will fortify me against harsh truths. “Tell me about the show first.”
Anka and Reese started showing dogs in the pandemic. Roaring over her imitations of anxious owner-handlers who match their outfit to the dog’s collar, I blaze through the wine.
“It’s creepier when the professionals do it,” she groans, refilling our glasses. “This one guy, you should see him. Klaus is his name. The owner pronounces it Claus, like Santa. He has a big belly like Santa, too. The dog is one of those toy breeds that craps when it gets nervous. Klaus has to keep wipes on hand to clean up. Anyway, picture this big guy,” Anka says, almost knocking over the bottle as she gestures, “with a toy rat terrier tucked under one arm. He’s on his hands and knees searching for a pill.”
“His or the dog’s?”
Anka cackles. “His or the dog’s? Good one. You’re funny today. That must be the wine talking. Here, have more. Anyway, I’ve got a primo view of Santa’s ass crack and I’m trying to keep a straight face while this reporter who looks all of twelve years old interviews me after Miss V placed.”
“Congratulations, that’s amazing!”
“I thought Gen Z was supposed to be woke, but it’s the same shit. ‘Oh, you’re a hairdresser and you’re so pretty, of course you have such beautiful dogs,’ like my entire flipping life revolves around beauty.”
Anka picks at a hangnail, digging in as she continues. “Like this all got handed to me because I won the genetic lottery. Not because I’ve worked my ass off for the last fifteen years. That’s why Reese handles them in the ring, you know. No one’s ever gonna mistake my butch wife for someone who had things handed to her on a silver fucking platter.” After a particularly deep pick, she winces. “Fuck, I’m bleeding.”
“I didn’t realize people said those things. I’m so sorry.” I hand Anka a tissue. “Here, wrap this around your finger and elevate your hand.”
“Yes, nurse Nicole.”
There’s only a splash of wine left. I give it to Anka, who tells me to open another bottle. “There’s a rosé in the fridge I’ve been saving for you. It’s made by this small-batch producer in Veneto. No one’s heard of her over here, but wait six months and it’ll be impossible to get a bottle.”
The refrigerator is empty except for wine, eggs, and condiments.
“Anyway, Reese arrives and the kid misgenders her,” Anka continues.
“Damn. How did Reese handle it?”
“Oh, she’s used to it. The poor kid tripped over herself to apologize and Reese wound up comforting her. Days later, I’m the one bent out of shape.” Anka unwraps her thumb and crumples the tissue.
I put my hand atop her non-wounded one and squeeze. “People are terrible. I’m sorry.”
“Enough about me. How are you?”
“Fine—”
“None of this ‘fine’ crap. You’ve thrown enough hints.”
“If you’re going to make me spill my guts, can you at least feed me? And I don’t mean we graze on olives and mixed nuts. I need a real meal, not some sad girl dinner.”
“We can order a pizza,” Anka says.
“Let me check something.” Each step feels weighted, like I’m trying to prove I’m not drunk instead of surrendering. I scrounge up eggs, blue cheese, a jar of roasted red peppers, forlorn arugula, creamer that passes the sniff test, and another bottle of wine I decide to ignore. For now. “I can make a frittata. Chef gave me his recipe. His is silky and smooth. Like sex, he says.”
Anka snorts with laughter. “I’ll take the real deal. It’s been a minute.”
Seth and I have always had a strong physical connection. The frequency dipped last year, but from what I overhear at work, I have nothing to complain about. Anka plays it coy rather than dish about the details of her and Reese’s sex life, but I’d always assumed things were solid in the bedroom department. Between work, the flip, and showing dogs, it sounds like things have fallen off the radar. Am I a bad friend if her relationship troubles make me relieved?
“You two will find your groove when this flip gets on track. Or who knows,” I say, preheating the oven to broil and digging through cupboards for a skillet. “Maybe you’ll drop by the flip with some of these leftovers and wind up having hot sex on the kitchen counter.”
“Oh, I won’t let Reese anywhere near me until she showers off all that dust…but we’re not talking about my relationship, we’re talking about yours.”
“It’s the same old story. I bring up the wedding and he shuts down.” I dice the red peppers and toss them in the skillet, along with a glug of olive oil.
“I offered to elope and he distracted me with a kiss. Which would be romantic under different circumstances, but when we can’t have a simple conversation about the marriage he initiated, I worry he’s changed his mind. Then all the old doubts and insecurities come rushing in.” I fork the eggs into submission. My hangups are predictably basic. She must hear some version of the same complaints from her clients; she’s probably bored with them, too. It’s a relief to not have to explain.
I pour the egg mixture in the pan and adjust the heat. The frittata is supposed to cook on low until the eggs pull away from the sides of the skillet.
“Did you ask him straight up, or are you leaping to conclusions?” When I don’t reply, Anka adds, “I bet he’s afraid of getting sucked into wedding planning. He’s probably hoping you’ll make all the arrangements, so all he needs to do is show up!” She smirks. “I’ve seen your Pinterest boards. Nothing’s stopping you from planning.”
I stare at the bubbling eggs and confess, “Yesterday’s bride wore my dress.”
“What?”
“The dress from my Pinterest board! Princess style with lace on top and a full tulle skirt. Remember, you joked I needed to rent one of those bibbity-bobbity-boo carriages?”
“Oh. My. God.”
“Right? So humiliating—”
“What?!? Noooo. It’s amazing. Seeing another bride in your dress is a sign from the universe. My manifestation teacher says…”
Sweet baby Jesus, not again. She wants the best for me, and she means well. But Anka enters every room as if she owns it. She’s beautiful, charismatic, quick-witted and a good listener: total main character vibes. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to live on the sidelines, waiting for a turn in the spotlight.
“Once elements of your vision board begin showing up in your life, it means you’re on the right track. Your dream is about to come true!” she squeals.
“I don’t believe the universe gives a rat’s ass what I want in life, or how many vision boards I make. I wouldn’t be working the same job I’ve had for ten years and making a buck-fifty an hour more than when I started, walking on eggshells around my fiancé and dodging invasive questions from my mother about whether I’m going to give her a grandbaby before my fifteen-year-old niece goes off to college. And god forbid I voice my frustration or you’ll tell me I jinxed my manifestation! ‘Law of Attraction 101, Nicole,’” I say, mimicking Anka’s raspy voice. “Riddle me this: If thoughts are things, like you always say, what does it mean if my so-called fiancé can’t be bothered to finish a damn conversation about our freaking future?”
Anka blinks. Then she reaches for her phone.
I wave the whisk, flinging bits of raw egg. “No pictures, no pictures.”
“I’m doing a video. You’re funny tonight,” she says.
“You’re drunk.”
“Oh, I’m drunk?” She flips me off, still filming.
“No video! What, you think this is Julia Child? The French Chef?” I say in a fake French accent. “Shove it up your flat ass!” I open the oven and shower the frittata with blue cheese crumbles. “Five more minutes and voila, enough to melt the cheese and evoke the stink of desperation. Not much time left for this one.”
“More cheese, please!” she crows.
“You think these are tasty morsels?” I screech. “These are more than humble crumbles. Every one is an excuse the gentlemen has made to push off the marriage ceremony. ‘My parents can’t travel.’ ‘Not until my sister’s baby is old enough for a sitter.’ I toss on cheese. ‘We’re not doing this for your Mom.’’ Or your sister.’ ‘This isn’t that Ultimatum show.’ ”
“Did he say that? Shit. I’m so glad I’m gay.”
Her words stun me into silence. I reach for my glass. It’s empty and so is the bottle. The room spins a bit. Long seconds pass. I take a deep breath and think, fun.
This is what fun feels like now. A girls night with my second-favorite person in her stunning new kitchen. We’re protected by a vaccine. Everything is dialed up to level ten to make up for lost time. And maybe because Anka’s star shines so brightly, and she is so generous with me, I feel less like a side character when we’re together.
I wave the whisk like a wand. “You get a flower wall, bam! You get a mashed potato bar, bam! You get a boho tent with Persian carpets and floor cushions and rose petals galore.”
Anka brays with laughter.
I reach for the wine, forgetting it’s kicked. “I’m sick of playing fairy godmother to every woman from Albany to Manhattan with a rustic wedding Pinterest board when half the time they don’t even say thank you! When instead of being grateful to be alive and marrying the love of their life, they’re uppity and entitled!” My emotions stream out in a snotty, hiccupy mess.
Anka stabs the phone until it stops recording.
When the oven timer goes off, Anka rescues the frittata. We wolf down thick slices while standing at the island. The texture is soft and creamy, with umami-rich bits of roasted pepper and cheese. “Pretty good,” I admit.
“You were funny tonight. I like seeing you funny. Humor is so important. And this,” Anka says in between bites, “tastes incredible. Let me edit that last bit and post—”
“Post it on Instagram? No way! That was for your ears only.”
“TikTok. That sexy Joan Rivers impression is too good not to share.” Anka toys with her phone. I reach for it. She twists away and runs around the island, screeching about cold feet.
I chase her, both of us sliding in our socks. “Don’t! Don’t!” I yelp, reaching. Wine makes my reflexes jerky.
Anka leaps away. Her foot slams a kitchen stool. “Owww,” she howls and drops the phone. It lands with a tinny plink in the dog’s water bowl.
We stare.
Anka giggles.
I rescue the phone, towel it off with the edge of my shirt, and sink to a seat against the cabinets. My shoulders shake, then my legs. Soon I’m laughing until I can’t breathe and wiping tears off my face. Miss V wanders over to sniff my ankles.
We grab a few halting breaths, trade smiles, and fall apart all over again.
Lindsey Danis is a queer, gender expansive writer living in the Hudson Valley. Author of On Queer Homesteading (Finishing Line Press, 2026) and (Out) On the Road: How Queer Travel is Different and Why It Mattes (Ig Publishing, 2026), their writing has appeared in Longreads, Catapult, Kitchen Table Quarterly, and Barzakh. More at https://www.lindseydanis.com.