Nova Zamorano

It was 9:00 a.m., and the sun was far too bright for Nova Zamorano’s liking. The apartment still smelled like vanilla candles from last night’s party. She lay on her sofa, draped in her barely-there black chain dress, every piercing still in place—nose, tongue, chest, and navel. When the doorbell buzzed, she winced, groaned, and slowly stood up, muttering under her breath, “Who the hell rings at 9 a.m.? This better not be another delivery"