A loud clang sounds through Farah’s apartment and lingers between her ears. She’d been tossing silverware into a storage bin. Its effect was harsher than she expected. Farah dislodges a jammed fork, and she notices dozens of hair-like scratches marring its surface and a crooked prong. How did that happen? She scrapes off a piece of dried food. She and Jon took three hours culling the sterling silver, ivory-handled fork in a set of five forks, five spoons, and five knives during their honeymoon in Tangiers. Even after haggling, the couple spent what was for them a small fortune on it. Last night, Farah used the fork to eat mac and cheese out of a pot. She forces the bent prong back to center, and it breaks. That small, wrinkled vendor had insisted it would last a lifetime. Farah stares at her three-pronged fork, but she can’t throw it out. Not after how hard she fought for it in the divorce.

She looks for the silver polisher, scavenging through unclosed, unlabeled boxes, the present makeup of her apartment. It’s at the very back of the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink, next to the wood floor cleaner she’s used maybe twice during the four years she lived here and the three years that they lived together. Farah will leave it. Her studio in West Hollywood has tile floors. Seizing a dishtowel, she burnishes her broken fork until it glistens. Farah pours the rest of the silverware out onto the counter, when there’s a hard knock at her door. She goes to get it.

A ruddy, clear-skinned, full-lipped face framed by long, messy hair and a beanie greets her.

Farah, a bit ambushed by the girl’s greenness, tucks a dark lock behind her ear. “Nice to meet you, Morgan,” she says, extending her slight, bony hand to shake the girl’s plump, white one. “Come in.” Farah walks through her apartment, and Morgan, who has no bra on under her “Black Lives Matter” tee, follows.

“Here it is.”

Morgan sits on the printed chair and runs her hands along the arms. She swivels, arches her back, and leans on one side while draping her legs over the other.

Farah remains standing. “What do you think?”

The girl says indifferently, “It’s what I expected.” She gets up and pulls cash from her back pocket. “I know you posted 200, but I only have 150…” She hands Farah the bills. “Is that okay?” The upholstered armchair had cost four times as much, and it’s one item Farah has taken care to keep in good condition simply because she likes it. But it doesn’t fit the layout of her new place, and the girl has a hole in the arm of her hoodie.

“That’s fine,” Farah concedes. Perhaps her sympathy is still too easily won, but she’s aware of it.

“Oh my god. You’re the best.”

Farah opens the door for her, and Morgan carries the chair downstairs. “Honestly, my entire bed frame and mattress cost as much as this chair. I’m always spending money on stupid shit. Not that this chair is stupid. It matches the oriental duvet cover I got at Ikea.”

“It’s a South African print.”

“My bad.”

Outside, a light-skinned Black kid wearing small hoop earrings and an argyle sweater vest waits by a used Camry.

“Is that your boyfriend?”

“My roommate? No, Dylan’s a faggot.”

He crosses his arms. “Please excuse her language—she’s still high. And I told you not to wear that shirt. You make it look like a joke.” Dylan shakes his head. “White girls,” he remarks to Farah.

“Ouch.” Morgan zips her hoodie, embarrassed.

Dylan looks up at the sky, sighs, and undoes her zipper. He pops the trunk, and they manage to angle in the chair, though the lid won’t fully close.

“Thanks again.” Morgan waves and gets in the car.

“Sure, just take care of it.”

The passenger door shuts.

Farah remembers being twenty-one, two, and three. Her skin was softer, her clothes fit tighter, her gaze had challenge, and she could wear even apathy with confidence. She’d picture herself manifest in different ways—artist, libertine, martyr, and wife and parent weren’t among them. By the end of Farah’s twenties, though, ephemerality had lost its appeal. Regardless of the expanse of beauty found in fleeting impressions, aftertaste alone wasn’t enough. She wanted something she could hold onto. Maybe she didn’t have the strength to maintain her autonomy. Maybe she just wasn’t a good enough artist. At any rate, Farah met Jon, and she fell in love. She’d been in love before, but this was different; she was different. For the first time in each of their lives, they sought monogamy. They had an open relationship for three years until closing it in May of 2013 with a contract. Farah kept her end, Jon didn’t. And that’s why you don’t fuck and marry your dance teacher.

A chill breeze hits, and Farah catches herself staring at a palm tree branch. She goes back to the apartment. Her silverware, all laid out, is waiting for her on the counter, and though Farah doesn’t feel like polishing, learning how to finish tasks is another thing she’s picked up in her thirties. She re-dips the corner of her towel in polisher, when her phone rings. Farah recognizes the unsaved number. She clears her throat and answers in a slightly sweeter, earthier register.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s Michael.”

“Hi, how are you?”

“Good, good. Still on for tonight?” he asks briskly.

“Sure.”

“Ok. I’ll pick you up at 7.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“You excited?”

Farah smiles. “Excited? I’m not twelve.”

“Alright.” He laughs, “See you later.”

Michael Deng, 33, originally from San Francisco, now works in LA as a software developer. Like most of Farah’s dates in the last year, she met him on the Internet. Farah only uses sites she can access via phone app, though. Browsing in bed or even in the bathroom is acceptable, but sitting at a computer somehow feels too much. Michael is decently attractive from his photos, and he sounds smart over the phone. Most of all, he isn’t a musician or scuba instructor or cinematographer, like Farah’s past old habits. She places a polished spoon in the storage bin and goes to take a shower so her hair can dry before the date.

***

Michael chooses a tapas restaurant in Santa Monica, where he lives. It’s a popular, chatty after-work spot with heavily dimmed lighting that undercuts its casualness. He and Farah sit at the bar, working on margaritas and fried oysters. In person, Michael is about 5’8” to 5’9” and slim in a dexterous, health-conscious way. He wears a pale lavender button-down with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Michael douses an oyster in aioli and pops it in his mouth. Farah observes that his movements are both easy and deliberate. She wears an emerald-green cotton dress with a plunging neckline over her braless A cups, and Michael makes no effort to hide his staring.

“I Googled your work, actually. I was looking at your portfolio online.”

Farah hasn’t updated her site in almost a year. The last time she took photos was several months ago, and none were good enough to put up; that’s why she curates other people’s art. “And what did you think?”

“There were some nice shots of Myanmar. I liked the picture of the trees that looked like writing.”

Farah nods, “Where the branches look like Burmese script. ”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Thank you.” It’s been a while since someone has commented on her art.

“I also looked at your self-portraits.” He glances her over. “They were very nice.”

Farah flushes. “Ah. I’m glad they made an impression. I was nineteen.” Of course. The abstract nudes; they used to not make her embarrassed.

“Still pretty accurate, though? I heard Arab women age well.”

Farah purses her lips into a thin smile. “Not sure where you’d hear that,” she says coolly.

“Okay, you’re used to guys coming on too strong.” He leans back. “Not my intention.”

“Really.”

“Most girls I take out are fishing for compliments.”

“Do you take out a lot of women?”

“Honestly? Kind of. It’s these apps. My credentials are laid out, so a girl goes on, she sees by my job that I’m stable and can take her to a nice dinner, and she figures I’m worth at least a couple hours of her time. It’d be different if I were to approach you at a bar.”

Michael’s directness makes Farah self-conscious, but she admires his insouciant delivery. “It depends on which bar.”

“Sure. All I can say is, I was an absolute geek in high school. Then I worked hard, got a good job and worked even harder. Now I’m on a date with a sexy artist chick.” He leans in. “You’re like my dream girl, second to slutty cheerleader.”

Farah laughs. “You don’t prefer that I were younger and less, divorced?”

Michael shrugs. “So you’re not a girl. You’re a woman.” He eats another oyster and washes it down with his drink.

***

Michael’s one-bedroom apartment has a notable absence of clutter, giving the impression that he’s either very clean or he doesn’t spend much time at home. Only the necessary pieces of furniture occupy his space, along with a few framed calligraphy paintings and artifacts, and a large TV and gaming system. Farah had no intention of seeing Michael’s place yet, but he needed to make a pit stop and send something for work before dropping her home. She waits on his black leather couch and watches Workaholics as he’s on his Dell at the dining table. Farah cackles at a juvenile joke. Michael smiles. He closes his laptop, goes to the bar, and brings back two glasses of wine. He sits next to Farah at a respectable distance.

“Should we head out?” she asks.

“Let’s finish the episode,” he says, staring at the screen. Michael sips on wine, and Farah takes a swig as well. She laughs again, loudly—she knows she’s got a great laugh, and Michael looks at her.

“I wanna show you something. Hold on a sec.” He goes to his bedroom. Farah swirls her wine glass and looks at the time. She should go home. Michael returns with a small robotic aircraft.

“What is that? A toy plane?”

“A ‘toy’? No, it’s not a ‘toy.’ It’s a drone.” He goes to the balcony. “Come on.” Farah follows.

Michael flies his drone over the beach. It goes up, way up, then down to a low hover, and then up again. Farah steals glances at Michael. He looks like a boy, playful and fixated on uncomplicated things. She’s inclined to redirect his attention toward her.

“Check this out.” Michael makes the drone flip quickly three times in a row.

Farah claps. “Oh!”

They watch the aircraft return and make a clean landing on the glass table. She tilts up her chin. “Well done. You’ve impressed me.”

“Really? I wasn’t trying to,” Michael jokes as he turns off his toy and sets down the controller. He approaches Farah and puts a hand on her waist. “So, have I impressed you enough?”

Farah smiles and takes a step back. “I like you, Michael. Let’s not complicate things on the first date.”

“Then don’t complicate it.” He brings his other hand to her lower back. “We’re attracted to each other. Why does it matter if it’s our first date or our fifteenth?”

She says sensibly, “It does matter.”

“Look, you’ve gotten to see who I am. We’ve been talking for a couple weeks, and you’ve been to my place,” he reasons with ease. “So, am I what you thought?”

“Sure.”

“Was I able to show you a good time?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a good guy.”

“I don’t know that.”

“Okay, I’m a nice guy. Is it because I’m too nice?” He steps back a little, still holding to her hips. “Nice guys get left behind,” he says with a smirk.

“And nice girls get tricked,” Farah responds, but she doesn’t draw back. Michael kisses her. Farah receives. To hell with it. She finds him sexy, and it’s been a few months since she’s last had intercourse.

“Let’s go inside.” Michael guides her off the balcony and remembers to bring in his drone. He shuts the glass door, closes the blinds, and sits on the couch.  He pulls Farah on top of him. She kisses Michael, and he undoes his pants. After some brief fingering and rubbing, Michael puts on a condom.

“Do you feel that?”

Not really. All she feels is empty movement.

“Oh my god,” he says. Farah continues up and down. She looks at Michael, and he’s staring straight ahead. She turns and sees their reflection on the TV screen. “Oh my god,” he says.

Michael comes. Farah stays on top for a few seconds before dismounting. He quickly gets up and goes to the bathroom. The faucet runs. “How was it?” he asks. Farah puts on her clothes. “Good.”

Michael comes out, still naked. “Let’s do it again, yeah?”

Farah smiles thinly and raises her eyebrows. “Sure.”

He checks his phone. “Shit, I just got an email from work. You gotta wake up early tomorrow for yoga, right?” he says without looking up.

“That’s right.”

“Probably be another hour before I can take you home. Is it okay if I call you an Uber?”

“Of course.”

“Great. There’s one a minute away.”

Farah goes to the door. “I’d rather wait outside.”

Michael looks at her. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Let me walk you down.”

The Uber arrives when they reach the entrance. Michael gives Farah a one-armed hug. “I’ll call you.”

Farah gets in the car.

“To West Hollywood?” the driver asks.

Farah nods, “Yeah.” She looks at the apartment complex as they pull away. Fuck him. Aren’t all the good software jobs in the bay area, anyway?

***

A week later, Farah has dinner with Brad Hiller, 36, originally from Oregon, now working as a Financial Advisor in LA. He is a few pounds heavier than his photos, but he’s tall and has an overall friendly, handsome demeanor. Brad chooses a hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant. Though the food is bona fide, the tables are covered in a film of grease, there’s a flickering fluorescent bulb in the corner, and the shop is filled mainly with elderly Thai couples and some families.

“Fascinating. Are you a fan of Arbus?” he asks.

“Yes,” Farah responds. That’s the fourth time he’s regarded something as “fascinating” tonight.

“She has some really fascinating work. She uses high-contrast lighting in a manner that exposes humanity, in my opinion. She utilizes light to reveal our inner human workings, the good and the bad, I believe.”

“Mhm. Her portraits are eerie.”

“Eerie. Yeah, eerie. Do you like David Lynch? I’m a firm believer in the notion that cinematography and photography have a lot in common.”

Farah smiles. “That’s why they’re called motion pictures, right?” she says a bit more caustically than she had intended. She adds warmly, “The food here is really good, by the way. I’m definitely coming back.”

“Yeah? You like it? You barely touched your noodles!”

“I ate half of it.”

“Are you on a diet? You don’t need it.”

“No, I just can’t eat as much in one sitting as I used to.”

“It’s the opposite for me,” he laughs.

The waitress returns with their bill.

“Can we get a box for her noodles?” Brad asks.

Farah shakes her head. “Noodles aren’t really take-home food. They’ll get soggy.”

“It’ll make for good soup,” her date insists. He points to the basket of complimentary chips. “Can we get the rest of the prawn crackers, too?”

The waitress leaves, and Brad justifies to Farah, “They’d throw it out otherwise.” She watches as he calculates the tip on his cell phone.

***

They arrive at Farah’s building, and Brad stops his car out front. She unfastens her seatbelt. Brad turns off the ignition and gives her a look.

Farah returns with a quizzical glance. “Thanks, Brad.”

He tries again, stares harder, more intently into her eyes.

“I’ll see you.” She opens the door.

“I see. Not the type to do it on the first date. I respect that, Farah. Next time.”

The passenger door shuts.

***

Farah comes home to her studio apartment—finally, all moved in. The space is compact but clean. She’s done away with patterned tapestries and tasseled rugs and has only a few framed black-and-white photos in place for decoration. She goes to the kitchen, sets a glass on her granite countertop and fills it halfway with red wine. Farah disposes of the leftover noodles. She takes the prawn crackers and her drink, and she sits on her white L-shaped couch. Farah puts Scandal on Netflix and props her feet on the coffee table.

Her phone vibrates, and she digs it out from under her. A text: Hi, how have you been? Been swamped with work the past week.

Farah hasn’t heard from Michael since their date. He never called. She ignores his text and eats her chips, disregarding the crumbs that fall onto her shirt, and she enjoys the rest of her episode.

***

A glob of cool cleanser falls into her palm. Farah dips her fingers in the wash and applies it evenly to her face in gentle circular motions. She stares at herself in the mirror. Scarce fine lines branch from the corners of her eyes. When did that happen? She scrunches her brow then quickly raises it as if undoing the impressions. Farah rinses with cold water and dabs a towel on her face. She applies moisturizer, softly patting her cheekbones, jawline, and neck, and she examines her countenance. Her skin’s become paler over the years, her jaw is more square, her cheeks have sunken, but her eyes are deeper. She’s lost that pretty fleshiness, but there’s poise in the angles of her face. Farah recognizes that she’s beautiful. She works down the bridge of her nose and thinks about her plans for the next day. She has to meet with that collector in Silver Lake for the gallery’s Sally Mann exhibit. She’s worked with him before. It should just be a quick pick up. After that, she can drop off dry cleaning. And maybe she should get around to having drinks with Jessica. She’ll respond to her tomorrow.

Farah gets in bed, her few tenacious baby hairs still moist and the scent of clean musk clinging to her skin. She nestles into 1000-thread-count sheets and turns on her side, bringing her arms and knees to her chest. Farah opens her eyes, reaches for a pillow to clutch to her stomach, and tries again. After a while, she rolls onto her back and sprawls out her arms. Farah sighs. She grabs her phone and types, “Good. U?” The text sends to Michael, and Farah places the phone face down on her nightstand. She turns over and goes back to searching for a comfortable position.