Better get up.

She could almost see the pounding headache coming at her like a fucking freight train, and sleep would only delay any kind of remedy to that. That settled it. Time to get up.

She swung her legs out of bed, the faintly-still-drunk part of her mind pausing briefly to admire them. Game of Thrones had gone down in flames, but at least it had given her a hell of a figure.

Forgoing pants for the moment, she stumbled down the hallway towards her kitchen. The can of soda and bag of potato chips told her Drunk Maisie, while far from what anyone might call sensible, was at least smart enough to prepare for the morning after. She made a mental note to buy herself a nice bottle of wine sometime.

Cracking open the soda, she looked around the living room. Her shoes were lying by the sofa, so she'd obviously sat there at some point. Impressively, they were the tall platforms, so she'd obviously been feeling bold enough to risk snapping her goddamn ankles.

She found her dress in a pile in the bathroom, a pile of makeup wipes in the sink. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Surprisingly, she seemed to have gotten most of it off.

A phone ringing broke her concentration. She followed it through the apartment, and found her purse hanging by the front door. She pulled out her phone and looked at the screen, but didn't recognize the number.