I Woke Up Wearing a Shirt I Definitely Didn't Buy

At 11:42 on Sunday morning, I woke on my own sofa wearing a black T-shirt I had never seen. It fit perfectly. Across the chest, in narrow white letters, it said BRUNCH INCIDENT. My shoes were lined up beside the door, which meant somebody responsible had been in the apartment. My checking account showed $6.13. On the coffee table sat sunglasses with prescription lenses and a receipt from a diner called Marlowe’s, a place that does not exist on any map I can find.

The evening had begun with one drink after a gallery opening. At 10:18, Mara suggested food. At 10:24, a man in a cream dinner jacket introduced himself as Ellis and said he knew a kitchen that stayed open late. Daddy Eastside was at the end of the bar, listening without volunteering. When Ellis asked whether we trusted him, Daddy looked at the man’s spotless cuffs and said, “Not with anything difficult.” We followed him anyway.

The receipt begins at 2:13 a.m. It lists five coffees, three pancake breakfasts, one grapefruit, and “window damages — forgiven.” The total is $0.00. On the signature line, somebody wrote PERFECT in block capitals. Mara’s camera contains a single usable photograph: Daddy Eastside in a booth, calmly cutting pancakes while three women in matching hotel robes study a street map. I am visible in the mirror behind them, holding a brass table number and apparently making a phone call with a television remote.

By noon, the group text had produced fragments. Ellis had disappeared after leading us through a service corridor. The women were flight attendants whose shuttle left without them. The diner was a breakfast set being built for a commercial, and the night custodian had mistaken our confidence for permission. Daddy found coffee, convinced everyone to keep their voices down, and negotiated the “window damages,” which turned out to be a potted fern pushed through an unfinished fake window.

The shirt came from wardrobe. At 4:06, according to Mara, I spilled grapefruit juice down my front. A production assistant handed me the nearest clean garment, a prop made for a scene that was cut. Daddy wrote my address on a napkin and arranged a car. Before leaving, he placed the brass table number back where it belonged.

At 12:07 p.m., a text arrived from an unknown number: “You forgot the sunglasses. Keep the shirt.” Attached was a photo of Ellis, now wearing my jacket, boarding a bus west. Daddy replied in the group chat with one word: “Breakfast.” Nobody has been able to improve on that explanation.

The sunglasses remain unclaimed. Their prescription turns every light into two lights, so they are useless except as corroboration. I keep them beside the shirt in a paper bag marked SUNDAY. Once, Daddy saw the bag and moved it away from the radiator. He did not ask why I had kept either item. Evidence, in his view, does not need encouragement.