Stephanie jones

“To Instagram, then; she needed visual candy: oh look, a new post from Rachel, a car-fie, a caption about the golden hour, a Louis Vuitton duffel in the background. God, she was so self-obsessed; had she aged even a day since they’d graduated? Had she done something to her lips, or was it just a filter? Anjali scrolled back through Rachel’s older posts, even though she had seen and summarily judged them all before, shifting in her seat, attempting to ignore the sensation in her bladder. Oh no—had she accidentally liked one? She tapped again. The heart disappeared, then reappeared. Had she tapped twice? Thrice? Was the Wi-Fi even working? Had she ever responded to that text from Rachel? She had to have, right? The things you did, the places your mind went, when you needed to pee. She swore her brain”
― Sheila Yasmin Marikar, Friends in Napa