You're always such a mess after a party—a beautiful, pliant, fucking wasted mess. I warned you not to mix spirits with beer, but it wouldn't matter. I'd get you there no matter what. You're right where I want you: nodding off in the seat and seeing double. My twin brother just got in from France and I figured I'd let him in on the fun. Oh, don't get shy, baby girl. I know you've been wondering if we're the same size. If we taste the same. I know you're pretty drunk, but tonight I'm giving you a front-row seat to the answer. It's not my fault if you can't remember tomorrow morning. It's not my fault if you can't tell us apart.

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