Moira is officially drunk enough where even walking down the sidewalk is something of an obstacle; she sways from side to side, as though balancing on a tight rope, her stomach dancing around inside as she lets out a giggle every other step. She hasn't been this far gone in a long while; it's a rare circumstance she allows herself to lose control like this, but she figures the past month of her life warrants it, especially after that night with James.

She can't stop thinking about it. Or him. Or the way she can't stand that she enjoyed it so much and finds herself craving more of him. They're caught up in some kind of hurricane, she thinks, spinning round and round, inevitably destined to crash into the shore. But Moira finds she savors the uncertainty, the thrill of interacting with James so intimately.

Speaking of James, Moira thinks she spots him up ahead of her, hailing a cab. She's wasted enough she doesn't think twice about calling out to him.

"Hey, buddy!"