Somewhere between the fourth mimosa and the realization that "ghosting" wasn't a viable long-term career strategy, the brunch realm shimmered. Again.
It began, as most cosmic brunches do, with an unsolicited monologue.
"Welcome back, you flaky croissant of denial," purred a velvet voice.
Gregory blinked. The brunch realm blinked back.
And then—
The Table of Tentative Triumphs™ emerged.
It rolled forward of its own volition, embroidered with a lace runner made entirely of "unsent emails that maybe, just maybe, should've stayed in Drafts." There were place cards. They read:
Gregory
His Inner Saboteur (plus-one confirmed)
The Memory of That Time He Tried Kombucha Yoga
The Still-Simmering Embarrassment of Calling His Teacher "Mom" in 4th Grade
A Scary Amount of Sentiment for That One Hoodie
As Gregory sat, the table spoke in the tone of a librarian who knows you're overdue.
"Today's special: The Pancake Stack of Pattern Recognition," it declared.
