Sam stares at the fish tank at the corner of the waiting room. The perpetual stream of outgoing bubbles, the colorful, mindless fish wafting back and forth. She tries to ignore the growing pressure in her chest. She thinks about their fishy eyes—how creepy they are: glossed-over circles that have nothing behind them. How long has it been? Two minutes? It feels like ten. Maybe seven. She thinks about how it isn’t a big deal; about how there’s a 60% chance that it could be something else, and about how even if that’s only a little more than half, life is random, and so she can’t know which percentile she belongs in anyways until she sees the results, so there’s no point in overthinking. Sam is cool, full of youthful cynicism. Don’t romanticize it, she thinks. Life is transient, and no matter how long it can seem, no matter how many experiences, lessons, memories, and accomplishments you have, it’s honestly all the same in the end. Her own eyes glaze over, and the room seems to be covered in a murky, turquoise sheen.

The door opens, and a mother and son walk through. The woman in the headscarf squeezes the shoulder of her boy with no hair. God, how old is this kid? Eight? Ten, tops? Now that’s just not fair. She thinks about what he has to deal with, about how he might never become a scientist or astronaut or president, and about how fucked up it is that this was happening to a kid who deserves to have as many delusions about the future as the next. She watches him search through a bowl of candy at the front desk. How does he do it?  

The pressure swells in her chest. She thinks about how she’s never been to Europe, never been in love. About how she hasn’t graduated college or seen Casablanca. She thinks about how much she loves the summer and the rain and potato chips. A dull ringing sounds in her ears. Sam looks at her clasped hands. How long have her palms been sweating?

A nurse comes out with a clipboard, “Samantha?”

Aiden walks into the meeting room, a white space without a wall or exit in sight, and allows the door to close behind him. The Woman In The Red Suit is at a desk suspended in mid-air. Her hands are neatly folded. Her glance holds a phlegmatic beckoning. Aiden, a pleasant bounce in his step, delivers a firm, decisive shake.

“It’s nice to meet you in person.”

“Something like that,” she says.

The forty-four-year-old-man sits comfortably and presents a single sheet of paper from a translucent file slip. He slides the proposal across the table. “I’d tell you to google me,” he says, noting the lack of technology (or even a pen and paper), “but it doesn’t look like you can.”

She smiles at his triteness, “Oh, Google isn’t necessary,” and looks over the proposal for three seconds. “So what questions do you have for me?” the woman asks dryly.

“How long will it take to get started?”

“Instantaneous.”

“I see. And how long will it take to resolve the complete issue?”

“In-stan-tay-nee-us,” she enunciates.  

“And just to be clear, you’ll make her shut up. As if the entire situation never existed.”

“Yes, as if you never went to that club last December. As if you never messaged her on Instagram. As if you never failed to pull out, and as if you never attempted to coerce her into signing an NDA, which ultimately also failed,” she lists.  

Aiden thunders, “As if she never tried to cheat me out of 300 million dollars and threatened to ruin my home, my reputation and my legacy?” It’s evident this thought has been circulating within him as of late, never failing to rouse fury that’s ironically masochistic, regardless of how many times he’s come to it. The man, though beet red, retakes control of his tone. “And what happens exactly? Does anyone die?” he asks, auditing his liability.

“Oh no. Not from this. They’ll live until death decides to take them.”  

“Will I remember any of it?”

“You will remember everything. Their memories, however, will be wiped.”

He lurches forward, “Alright. Where do I sign?”

She hovers her hand, signalling a halt. “I haven’t evaluated your offer yet.”

“Is there a better offer? You’ll own the soul of arguably the most powerful man on earth.”

“Define ‘powerful.’”

“Rich. Influential.”

“To whom?”

“The entire First World. And the Third World labor force.”

“I already own 99.9% of capitalism, and your work doesn’t fall into the .01% that remains to be acquired,” the woman states. “Besides, your soul’s value is heavily diluted. You’ve in fact pledged it to me and various other entities several times already–granted those were verbal agreements, the first being when you were twelve. You were a finalist in your city’s scholastic wrestling championship, and you had managed to poison your opponent with non-lethal doses of bleach a week leading up to the match. However, having always been a man of faith over science, you also vowed your soul to the devil so that he would lose.”

Aiden grins, fondly remembering his middle school medal and all the hedonistic bounty that came with it. “We go way back, don’t we?”

“And that’s why you’re of less value to me.”

“What can I add? I’ll throw in anything less than 300 million.”

She’s unaffected.

“Hell, I’ll do 300 million. So long as the situation is entirely wiped, it’s worth it for me.”

“You’re foolish to think money would be of any use to me,” she declares.

At this the man realizes his scarcity in capital. “What would you like?” he asks with more strain. “Good acts? I’ll start a center for the homeless.” His tempo imparts the vague onset of desperation. “Bad acts! I’ll have a homeless shelter–several main shelters–shut down by the government.”

“There’s enough evil on earth already. I crave eternal control of human life force.” She says matter-of-factly, “I simply want soul, but you don’t have much left to give.”

He chortles. “What, do you want my dog’s soul as well? My personal assistant’s?” he appeals, “My kid’s nannies? Look, I’ll have them sign whatever.” His voice rises with contrived jolliness, “they do anything I tell them to!”

The woman shakes her head. “It wouldn’t be official.”

“You’re killing me.”

“You wish it were that painless.”

Aiden reaches into his pockets but doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Here, he gives into panic. “My pills. Where the fuck are my percs?”

“You can’t bring pills in here.”

“I know that, Dipshit, but I brought them in. I had them in a discreet two by one little plastic baggy that you put your fucking drugs in.” Aiden searches frantically, patting every fold on his three piece suit. He sweats. “Jesus, am I fucking high right now?”

The Devil looks on, rather delighted.  

“You’re a mean bitch, you know that? You’re a real c*nt.” he snaps, attacking her with a dark-eyed, lurched glare that’s simultaneously vindictive and pathetic, like a scavenger hovering over a week-dead found meal.

“Easy there,” she smiles. “I was just having a little fun.” The Devil hands him a needle and passes his paper back to him. “I’ll take you up on your offer. You can sign it in blood.”

He pricks his finger and signs quickly, fearing she might retract the decision.  

The woman examines it, pleased. “You think you’ve won again?”

“I know you don’t think that, but I really don’t care what you think. No offense.”

“Your meager soul, diluted as it may be, is still worth more than anything material on that earth. Had I let you walk out, you could have gone back and chosen to reform at any point. Bereaved of wealth and glory, you would have been forced to face the people in your life and to recognize the person you’ve become. Perhaps you would start meditating, reading transcendental philosophies, searching for inner peace, seeking harmony and genuine human connection. You might have gone to rehab. Your children and wife might have become proud of you. You could have been the world’s best grandfather. Your death would have been mourned, your presence would have been missed. But you’ve chosen arrogance. You’ve chosen what you think is power, and what you believe to be wealth. Your children, they will grow to resent you by the time they graduate primary school. Your wife, she won’t find out about this mistress’s pregnancy, but she already knows you’re an adulterer; and once she moves past sorrow and self-deprecation, she will despise you. She will make it her life’s mission to retaliate on the pain you’ve caused her and her children. Those who don’t know you will admire your name for what you’re able to buy with money. Those who know you, though, will believe wholeheartedly that the world is be a better place without you. And when you vanish from that earth, I will own your soul. Lifetime after lifetime, you will be trapped in this cycle, chasing wealth and vanity. You will never feel true happiness, your soul will never feel fullness, and you will never be at rest.

Aiden stares soberly into the Devil’s eyes. There’s an involuntary jerk in his upper lip, and a faint croak slips out his voice box. He cracks a smile. “There’s no one I’d rather be with than you, Baby.”

“Thanks, Aiden. You’ll find your oxycontin pills in your pocket when you exit.”

Aiden leaves through the same door from which he came in.

Beth has never been regarded beautiful; in fact, she is rarely regarded at all. Her hunched shoulders, tube-shaped waist, round and guileless eyes mark her neither peculiar nor excessively ugly–only pathetically plain. She’s the type of girl other women find easy to talk to. Not because her presence holds any seeming insightfulness, or even, relatability, but because some women are able to clamor on at anything, and sometimes the perfect recipient is a human bean bag chair. But Beth doesn’t protest her footing, since life has not been fair to her in far too many more ways than one. And when someone is robbed of even the fundamentals of her existence, it’s difficult to be concerned with matters of popularity. Beth has acquired an attitude of acceptance that many deem weakness; upon a closer look, however, one can see that it is in fact character.

Beth is diligently–as she is with everything–trimming the stems of pink lilies when a young man strides into the small flower shop she works at. With joyful resolve, he requests, “A bouquet of lavender carnations, please.”

Her body goes stiff. It doesn’t matter how many people come through the store. When confronted with human interaction, Beth’s instinctual response is always a quick bout of panic. She blinks rapidly several times and returns to her homeostatic voidness.

The man doesn’t notice. He follows her to the cooler, and Beth pulls out a bouquet of lavender carnations. The scrupulous lover furrows his brow in disappointment.

“I’m proposing tonight.” He looks to Beth for help, “Lavender is her favorite color.”

Beth asks attentively, “Are carnations her favorite flower?”

“She doesn’t have a favorite flower. I thought classic roses would be boring.”

The florist shares her thoughts hesitantly. “Carnations are usually for Mother’s Day… And purple carnations, especially, can mean capriciousness… which… perhaps isn’t great for a marriage proposal.” She pauses, looking for permission to continue. “Maybe a combination of roses, calla lilies, and orchids?” Would that be alright? Her expression says.

Beth’s lack of confidence makes him doubt her. “Are they lavender?” he asks.

“I can arrange something with lavender, I think.”

But Beth knows that she can. She knows the perfect temperature for every breed and strain, and the exact macro and micronutrients needed for different soils. She can name every flower by scent, and she knows that yellow is for friendship, lilies mean sympathy, and chrysanthemums are arranged at funerals. Beth loves proposal flowers the most; not because they represent love, since all flowers represent love, but because they stand for promise. She assembles a balletic arrangement of lavender lilies, white orchids, and small indigo roses.

The young man leaves even more certain than he’d been coming in, completely enchanted with the floral composition, and not at all with the young woman who created it.

—

A sharp, squelched inhale at 4am, and Beth’s eyes snap open, again. A dream. It wasn’t real. Her mind runs through the grounding facts: it’s 2017; the month is March; you live on Hoover Street; that’s the ceiling; that’s your bedroom door. Her breathing lulls. Now, go back to sleep. Beth closes her eyes, but anxiety creeps. The type of fear that strikes at night, when nothing can distract it. Like jungle vines roping around her heart and chest, she remembers–not that she can forget–but now she’s trapped again in the fact that she doesn’t know where he is. She hasn’t heard his voice in almost two years. She doesn’t know whether he is anywhere, except that she’s never gotten the call.

That’s what she fears most: the call from the hospital or forensics officer, informing her that her younger brother has been found, and she needs to identify the body.

At 4:30am, Beth is at her most awake. She patiently awaits the sunrise.

—

Though her eyes have been open for the past three hours, as soon as Beth’s alarm sounds, she’s unable to move. The twenty-four-year-old isn’t quite a pessimist, but circumstance and experience has worn away at most of her energy and expectation. A day is a day, a moment is a moment, and no one can predict what will happen between one and the next. Beth only hopes that today is like yesterday and the day before: steady, ordinary. The young woman eventually gets up, brushes her teeth, and runs a comb through her thin locks before departing.

The florist mounts her secondhand cruiser bike and commences pedaling with stout legs. Her shoulders are back, her neck is long, her spine is as straight as it ever will be. Though Beth is ungainly most of the time, she can transport herself with unexpected grace. The commute is familiar–it’s something that’s hers. For these twenty minutes in the morning, she inspires the wind through her hair, exhibiting a glimmer of what could be confidence. She comes to a well-paced, consummate stop at an intersection and looks both ways even though the walk signal is on. A car more than 400 meters away approaches a red light, but Beth remains stopped. A pedestrian leisurely strolls past her to the other side of the street, and still, she waits. Beth has a rule: she doesn’t cross streets until there are no cars in sight. An irrational fear, maybe, but when both her mother and father had died in car accidents on separate occasions, who’s to say which is an exaggerated response, and which is a learned precaution? Perhaps it’s heroic she’s able to bike on the street at all.

Beth enters her second home. The shop extends shelter from most of the outside noise and unpredictability. Mr. and Mrs. Khasbulatov come twice a week to review bookkeeping, and there is one other employee, Mai, who works part time. Beth opens and closes six days a week, so this store is more hers than anyone else’s. She steps into the chilled backroom, switches on the light and is greeted by the well-known fragrance of mixed plants. She retrieves this morning’s delivery from the back lot–sunflowers–and sets to work at the front, removing extraneous leaves, trimming stems, and placing them into large, clean vases before arranging bouquets. Beth has received flowers once. Cyril Chang in the seventh grade, long-haired, four-eyed and rotund with a soul softer than his stomach. The bouquet of eight flowers is ingrained in Beth’s being: one hot pink rose, one yellow sunflower, one stem of dark lavender, one white daisy, one apple green orchid, one red tulip, one orange lily, and a stem of bright blue forget-me-nots. He had picked each one from the residencies of a much nicer neighborhood. And when the seemingly absent-minded twelve-year-old was caught, since he didn’t have the sense to be hidden in the first place, the owners were irate. Who was this stupid and obscure boy, old enough to know better, scavenging through their properties? Cyril answered resolutely that the flowers are beautiful, and he wants Beth to see them. An ignorant but pure act of love; they decided to let him off clean. Beth hadn’t discovered the bouquet’s origin until later, and when she did, her heart ached over the distress he must have weathered under so many eyes and questions. She kissed every inch of Cyril’s face. That summer was as bliss-filled and languid as any Jane Austen novel, and by fall, Cyril’s dad had gotten a job in Texas, and the family was packed and moved before Thanksgiving. Beth had kept the dried bouquet, a relic of their vital and interrupted love, until one day, Aaron, mad at his sister for not lending him money to buy a pocket knife, stomped on her flowers, leaving their crumbs in the carpet.

She misses him. On average, Beth thinks of Aaron at least four times a day. She allows it four times a day.

The small metal bell rattles, and a young woman, Beth’s age, with a septum piercing and large, round glasses, enters the store. She waves rigidly and says, “Hey,” in a relaxed alto. The girl ruffles her short, curly bangs. She’s holding a stack of paper. “We just opened an art studio and gallery called, ‘Free to Be’ a few doors down. All produced by local artists.” She presents her stack. “Was wondering if I could leave some flyers at your desk? We’re offering painting classes, too. If you enroll now, you get ten sessions for $70.”

Beth observes the girl’s tattooed sleeves and the denim overalls hugging her imperfectly pear-shaped body–she moves and speaks in a manner that says, I’m different, but not damaged, and the downtrodden florist is a bit envious. She gives a delayed response, “Of course.”

“Cool. Cool. Thanks.” The girl leaves the fliers with Beth. “I’m Ariel, by the way.”

“My name is Beth.”

“Sweet. Alright, Beth, hope to see you soon.”

Beth doesn’t know how to paint, but she used to sketch constantly–peers, teachers, strangers. Though no one looked at her drawings, she was often buried in a sketchbook during class, at lunch, or at the park after school. This was when people fascinated her. A natural observer, Beth could create full characters by catching a glimpse of someone’s physicality, and she believed in her own insights. She illustrated what she supposed to be that person’s soul. Her subjects were varied and profound, but ultimately fictional.

Then Beth’s perception of mankind went straight from ideal to bleak without the opportunity for much processing in between. Beth wasn’t a social kid or teenager. She wasn’t bullied either. She was content alone and never initiated getting close enough to anyone to be disappointed by them. When her mother died unexpectedly, and her father plummeted into alcoholism, though she’d never seen him drink before, Beth experienced her first betrayal. Then came her father’s death, and her aunts and uncles’ refusals to take in either her or her brother. Then came her brother’s drug addictions. Had Beth been exposed to more social friction growing up, even a bit of taunting or deception, she might have developed thicker, albeit calloused, skin. But being an inherently withdrawn and delicate person, the best way to describe Beth after these experiences is “shell-shocked.” She doesn’t understand people.

She glances at the flyer: strokes, shapes, colors, composition–this, she gets. A painting class right down the street… She hasn’t started anything new in over two years. Wouldn’t she prefer going home after work, making a lasagna, and sitting with a book? It’s been challenging enough to reach a daily balance. But Beth knows how it goes: it’s when she’s finally able to be alone without distraction that she feels the most alone. The only reason she hasn’t moved from her battered apartment with horrible management, though her hours and wages have grown, is because Aaron knows this address. It’s during these after work hours that every rustle outside sounds like it could be a knock on her door. She tries to fight it, but she’s listening, actively waiting, more than she’s able to read or eat or at times breathe. Beth should learn how to paint.

—

7pm the following week, the lone florist locks the register, takes out the trash and bolts close the rear and front entrances. Instead of getting on her bike, Beth goes to a small Mexican diner down the street. Being a Food Network enthusiast and a bit of a scientist in the kitchen, she rarely eats out. But tonight is her first day of class, and she needs a quick bite. A tall, slender Latina woman in her late thirties, either a waitress or the manager, appears from the back and raises a finger. Beth nods, “for one,” and the woman directs her toward a table outlooking the street. The shy diner buries her nose in a sticky, laminated one-sheet. Cow tongue, beef head, pork cheek, cactus, pickled vegetables… She bypasses and searches for her comfort zone. Beth orders a chicken taco plate and finishes every last bit of refried bean. She pays in cash and leaves a generous tip before heading to class.

Pacing through the industrial loft style studio without catching an eye, Beth arrives at check-in. Ariel meets her head-on without an ounce of recognition. Smiling ear to ear, the cool girl asks, “Here for the eight? Can I get yer name?”

“It’s Beth Spooner.”

Ariel nods. “You’re all set, Spooner.”

Beth pivots to a large table where several students are already seated. They possess a general look: 20s, tattoos, piercings, loud clothing, nice skin and decent hygiene. An older, androgynous blond wearing a Luke Cage tee that’s too tight in an unsexy way murmurs, “I fart in your general generation.” She scrutinizes the youth through her functional, undecorative glasses. “Your mother was a hamster, and your father was a middle-class accountant who paid for your college tuition.” The blond turns to Beth, expecting an accolade for her wit, and instead receives a sincerely apologetic look: I wish I knew what you were talking about.

“Hi everyone.” At front of room is a man in his early fifties with silky hair to his chin, a dark beard, and a relaxed but authoritative charm. His voice is soft, almost feminine, though he deliberately enunciates syllables in a way that compels one to listen. “I’m Greg. We’ll be spending some time in the evenings together for the next few weeks.” He speaks with loose hand gestures, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “I’m a painter. Mainly acrylic, mainly landscapes, but in this class, we’re focusing on self-portraits.” He scans the room. “Anyone create a self portrait before?”

The androgynous blond, a young man with bright green hair, and a girl in fishnets and combat boots raise their hands. Greg seems displeased with this sample.

“Let’s start with a different question.” The instructor turns to the student on his right. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Um. Mauveine.” Responds a small, bookish girl.

They go around the room.

“Cyan.”

“Dandelion.”

“Chartreuse.”

“Amber.”

“Red 266.”

“Blue,” Beth says.

Greg pauses. “I like blue.”

Beth can’t remember the last time someone’s looked at her in that way. She breaks eye contact, and Greg’s smile deepens with satisfaction.

Suddenly a girl with long, pinned-back hair and a bare face save for dark brows and lashes, enters apologetically. She is thoroughly beautiful, the type of woman whose outward appearance inspires faith in an imagined inner beauty. Quietly, she takes the seat beside Beth, who’s made starkly aware of her own crippling ordinariness. The young woman is equally embarrassed to have brought attention to herself.

“Your name?” Greg asks

“Annie. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Your apology is accepted, this time. You were caught up at a date, I assume?”

Already deep pink, Annie furrows her brow. “No, not at all.”

“Or maybe you didn’t know it was a date, much to his dismay.”

Now magenta, Annie has no idea how to respond.

Greg grins. “Lighten up!” He gets a chuckle from the class. “We’re sharing our favorite colors. What’s yours?”

She thinks quickly. “Blue.”

“Excellent color,” the instructor responds. He moves on to the next student.

Beth glances at beautiful Annie, who’s still dwelling in her hot embarrassment. Past the girl’s cherubic features though, Beth is stunned to recognize a familiar mar, like a sickly patient who sees for the first time the occupant of an adjacent hospital bed. A vague flicker of something not quite placeable, an acknowledgement, an exclusive understanding, stirs in Beth’s small world.

Thao hides a stack of lined paper behind her open MacBook and scribbles notes with the ballpoint pen held firmly in her small, strong fingers. She has always preferred writing by hand, but it seems so archaic, especially in public. The author looks disconcertedly at her uninspired drizzles. She’d expected that in light of her recent misfortunes, some useful material would at least present itself to her, but Thao’s mind and feelings are dry. In place of what should be tumultuous rage, sorrow or fear lies only an acute agitation. Of all the desired elements in Thao’s life, both fulfilled and unfulfilled, he was supposed to be a sure thing. The sex was never very good, but what about all those years? Endless hours of talk, listless exchanges about the news and social issues and workplace politics, verbal acknowledgements of their compatibility, their shared interests, their agreed upon views and their congruous daily routines–all of it, a waste. Perhaps Anthony was never fit to be her lover, but he was a deeply suitable life companion.

“She didn’t care.” Anthony had remarked tenderly. “She wanted me. It didn’t matter to her what I do, or how much I make. She didn’t even know.”

“Of course not.” Thao retorted, “She’s a mid-thirties sales associate. A moron. She’s probably sick of being cheated on by bodybuilders and thought she’d try a nice, stable guy for once.” Thao almost laughed. “I bet she didn’t even know you were married.”

“She didn’t,” Anthony responded.

So, that’s what he wants. Their love was a comforting one, built on top a solid foundation of commitment and reason. Deep down, Thao had known it was missing something, but for her, lasting companionship is a fair trade for capricious passions. The mistake was in believing she was the only one who had compromised. Well, it looks now that Anthony hasn’t after all. Thao moves her pen point onto the next bullet: how to raise a human being. This one causes her raw and acknowledged pain. What is wrong with An? Her daughter has so many friends, gets good grades, takes great care of her health and appearance, but there’s something deeply lacking.

Thao didn’t need to pry. An’s bedroom door was wide open when she guided Kyle’s hand up her skirt. And when the teen caught sight of her mother’s look, she only giggled, unashamed, and firmly shut the door, leaving Thao halted in the hallway with a laundry basket in her hands. That was Sophie’s boyfriend. Sophie, An’s cousin, and her best friend. Sophie, who had just spent the night; Sophie, who’s in nearly every photo on An’s Instagram and whom An had taught to put her hair in a messy top bun. Thao later confronted her daughter. She’s haunted by the image of An’s clear and shimmery complexion neatly contoured with bronzer, her dark, clumpless lashes that hid the glint of mockery in her eyes, and her sticky plump lips, which emitted that pretty and assuring laugh. “We were planning Sophie’s birthday,” An restated for the third time. Thao blanched. She quivered with rage and disbelief. Her daughter drew down the corners of her mouth so that she resembled an emoticon or one of those expressions charts at the doctor’s office, “Aw, Mom. You look stressed.” She tucked a piece of Thao’s hair behind her ear. “Is it Dad?” Blow one: her daughter’s betrayal to her friend. Blow two: the absence of trust in her mother. Blow three: the ease with which she carries her fully cognizant cruelty. The writer recalls Pierre Bezukhov’s horrific realization about his wife: “I did not understand her, did not understand that everlasting composure and complacency, the lack of any sort of predilections or desires, and the whole solution to the enigma lay in that terrible word depravity”; except Thao feels tenfold the heartache and responsibility for her child.

She spots a figure approaching in her peripheral. Another Gen Z, like An. He’s a lanky, dark-toned young man with a mild slouch and a brave but unobtrusive expression. Rami, one arm wrapped around a notebook, extends the other to shake Thao’s hand.

“Hi, hi. So nice to meet you,” he says in the friendly, gracious tone that’s appropriate to idealistic young people in addressing their predecessors.

Thao imitates warmth without caring whether it passes. “Hi, take a seat.”

Rami sits, withdraws an iPhone from his baggy pocket and sets it on the table. Thao’s eyes dart to the equipment.

“I have your permission to record, right?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, let’s get started then,” Rami states with casual authority. He opens his notebook and locates the right page. “This is Rami Said, and I’m here with writer and former US Poet Laureate, Thao Peterson–well, she was Thao Tran then. Thao, I’d like to thank you for granting me the time for this interview.”

Thao smiles thinly. “Sure. You wrote a very nice LinkedIn message, and I couldn’t refuse someone from my hometown,” she says with artificial cheeriness.

“Lincoln Heights. You still come around ever?”

“It’s been a while,” Thao admits.

An expression of judgment passes over Rami’s face but quickly fades. “So I’m a loyal fan of your work. You obviously have an impressive biography.” He lists, “You were raised by a single mother in a neighborhood ridden with gang violence, but you managed to stay drug-free and attended UC Berkeley. You then went on to publish impactful works about various civil rights issues including statements on Rodney King, Anita Hill, and Romer vs. Evans. You hold the record for being the youngest U.S. Poet Laureate in history–you were 36–and the first Asian American to be appointed the position.”

Thao nods, smiling, though she she still turns pink when faced with flattery, never having shaken the accustomed Asian humility.

“One of your first poems to gain public recognition was Memorial, a letter to your deceased brother, who died at fourteen in a gang-related crime. You were eight at the time of his death, but the poem wasn’t written until twelve years later. Could you talk about the delayed process? Is it that you needed time to grasp what happened? Did you remember or understand things differently with time?” Rami’s emotional attachment to the question reveals his novice nature.

Thao tilts her head. “I’d actually attempted writing down my feelings many, many times,” she says reasonably. “But yeah, nothing was ever clear to me. I was deeply devastated at eight, but I couldn’t understand the permanence of his absence–how long it would feel; how long it still feels. And, I was angry.” She raises her eyebrows. “It was the only way I knew how to cling to any power. I rejoiced every time I heard another gang member was killed. I wanted them all dead, and I prayed for it every night.” Thao pauses. She redirects her focus and states. “My brother had killed two people before getting shot himself.” Her look holds somber but august acceptance. “He had killed two brothers, sons or fathers, and then someone else’s brother or son or father killed him. And Anh was fourteen. He didn’t understand the permanence of taking or losing a life either… That’s what organized violence does. With its own rules and rationale, it leads to senseless death by convincing us that there are such things as ‘enemies,’ so that we forget people are people, and we forget how to be human.”

The young man nods, eager to add, “I mean that’s how Trump was elected, right? Manipulation of the masses, playing on people’s fears to ignite, if not outright hatred, then at least a disregard for human life and a willingness to overlook cruelty.”

Thao can’t resist a smile. “I think it’s great that young people are so passionate about the election results. It’s inspiring to see all those protests and hashtags,” she observes a bit slyly.

Rami draws back, frowning. “Really. The look and tone of your support aren’t very convincing.”

“I mean, there’s no doubt that Donald Trump is a dunce,” she responds. “He’s a terrible choice for president. But this country has been through much harder times, before you were born, filled with hatred that’s more threatening than it is idiotic. There’s no way he’ll be able to revoke constitutional rights and amendments. The man is the embodiment of a bad joke.”

“You’re serious right now?” Rami asks, incredulous. “Do you know what it’s like living in this country as an Arab and Black mixed, bisexual male?”

Thao realizes she hadn’t thought that far. Why hadn’t she?

“I didn’t need to attend any anti-Trump rallies. I protest every day by the color of my skin, the pronunciation of my name, and the way I choose to rest my hand on my partner’s shoulder in public. You don’t think I feel threatened every time I enter an airport, drive past a cop car or walk by a church? None of this is a joke–unless you don’t take my life seriously.”

Thao is silent. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” she concedes genuinely.

The high schooler shakes his head, still pissed–but more than that, disappointed. He looks at his notes for the next question. “You’ve done a lot to speak for social justice, including women’s rights, minority rights and gay rights,” he says halfheartedly. “In 1994, you published the book Anita Hill: A True Woman, in response to David Brock’s The Real Anita Hill, which you called ‘an attack on the character of women everywhere.’ That same year, you wrote a series of articles interviewing different minorities about their workplace experiences, which was cited to have helped The Equal Opportunity Act get passed in 1995. In 2003, while holding the position of Poet Laureate, you authored a highly controversial poem dedicated to same-sex love in the midst of Lawrence v. Texas.” Rami looks up. “Do you believe the social climate has changed at all since then? There’s Trayvon Martin, there’s Brock Turner, there’s the transgender bathroom case. Where were your statements on those?”

Thao answers, “Well, the Brock Turner ruling was horrible. Three months for three counts of sexual assault is hardly–”

Rami cuts in, “I wasn’t asking your opinion. The question was, ‘Where were your statements?’” He looks her in the eye. “What did you do about any of this? Not even a tweet.”

Thao isn’t sure how to respond.

The interviewer continues, heated. “As a supposed figure of influence who’s fought most her life for equal opportunities, you’ve chosen silence for the past decade and a half. Things are as bad as ever–what rock are you living under?”

Thao absorbs the affront. She exhales and folds her hands. “Look, I’m sorry about the youth and Trump comment I made earlier. You’re clearly still upset.”

“This isn’t about taking personal offense,” Rami responds impassively. “Though maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the last piece you published was a Vanity Fair article on sex in your mid-50s. You’ve gone from freedom fighter to placard for domestic life.”

The writer laughs. “I have a family now. What do you want me to say?”

“You don’t have anything to say–that’s all there is. I came with a headline in mind; I just needed the confirmation: ‘Woman of color from low-income housing fights for equality so that she can grow up to be White.’ I guess being a good person wasn’t enough for you. You wanted your picket fence, too.”

That cuts. Thao sits back and crosses her arms and legs. “You’ll come to understand, Rami, that the older you get, the smaller your world becomes,” she says, coolly but wounded. “Your actions are more closely observed, and you have people who rely on you. It’s not possible to just choose a cause and run with it anymore, regardless of how noble it may seem. It’s not so black and white.”

“I don’t need for you to teach me about grey areas or disappointment, believe me.” He says. Rami stops recording and closes his notebook. “Anyway, I have what I need. Thanks.”

The young man leaves, making his way to the nearest bus stop. Thao, left at the table, tosses back her hair and straightens her spine. She takes a sip of coffee and looks down at her futile notes with intense focus, trying not to feel her embarrassment or shame.

***

Three weeks later, Thao is in bed with her laptop, oddly comfortable. For the first time in almost a month, the master bedroom feels the right size, in spite of Anthony’s absence. On her screen is Lincoln High’s Lincoln Log news. She reads the conclusion of Rami’s feature, “White Flag.”

But Thao Peterson née Tran offers a lesson beyond race, societal ailments or the times. She’s a cautionary tale of aging, of being human: people give up. Sometimes we grow fearful. Sometimes, we’re just tired. It’s not hard to find comfort in even deplorable circumstances; discarded cardboard can be a mattress if we use it as so. But shouldn’t we do better? As Tran herself once believed, “The world is not round. It is angular, and it is lopsided, marred by dark trenches and deep faults. Still, this Earth is ours. So let’s fight. Keep fighting to be whole.” Making mankind whole is an almost impossible feat. We may never win. But let’s not be defeated.

Thao smiles. Rami’s a good writer. It’s too bad he missed the opportunity to ask more questions. She looks up and notices her fifteen-year-old daughter taking selfies in the hallway.

“Hey.” Thao calls to her.

An, her hand covering half her face, snaps a photo.

“An.”

“Yeah?” She adjusts the angle and takes another.

“Come in here.”

An snaps a series of nearly identical pictures before entering Thao’s room. “What?” she asks. But her daughter’s rude tone is eclipsed by her clean wisps of hair and her soft, pink pajamas. Thao wants to hug her. She pats a spot on her bed. An sits on the King Size mattress, keeping two feet’s distance between herself and her mother. Thao wants so badly to break through to her. She wants to know how school is, how her friends are, how An feels about love, and what her worries and her dreams are.

An stares impatiently. She throws out her arms. “Yes?”

Thao takes her daughter’s hand. “Did you do these yourself?” She says, looking at her nails.

An nods, happy to have someone recognize her work. “Cute, right? I was trying to get a good pic for my Snap story.”

“Not Instagram?”

“Nah. I’m still waiting for my last post to get at least a hundred likes.”

“I like that they aren’t very shiney. It’s unique.”

“It’s matte.”

“How’d you do the design?” Thao asks, still holding her daughter’s pretty fingers. “Looks intricate.”

“Oh no, it was super easy. I just watched a YouTube DIY.”

“It’s online?” Thao pulls up her laptop. “So if I search ‘nail art…’” She types.

An scoots next to her and looks at the screen. “Search ‘quilted nails DIY.’ …Scroll down.” She points, “That one.”

Thao clicks play. She feels An’s smooth, warm shoulder against her arm, smells her daughter’s sweet-scented lotion, and she resists the urge to kiss her forehead. Thao wishes the video were longer than six minutes, but she’ll take this happily.

Corey is a bag of dirt sinking to the bottom of her full-size Ikea mattress. She lies, her arms tossed to either side, her legs spread, her chest barely moving with scant, listless breaths. She’s covered again in that tar of worthlessness, which three consecutive showers couldn’t scrub off. She presses her cheek into her long, damp hair that’s sure to dry misshapen. The beating sun spurs the hammer in her head to pound harder. Suddenly, a loud buzz drills through the apartment. Corey remains inert without so much as a shift in breath. It sounds again. She peels her back off the mattress, throws on a tee shirt and boxer shorts and drifts downstairs.

At her door is a fat stranger with sallow skin and long, dark lashes. He’s holding a package with both hands. Corey, keeping the door cracked no more than a few inches, looks leerily from his cratered face to the box.

The gentleman cocks his head half-indignantly in response. “Your package was mistakenly delivered to my house.” He states in a nasally lilt, crisply separating each syllable.

“Oh,” Corey says. She takes the box and looks at it. A package from Lululemon. “It’s my roommate’s.” She drops the box inside.

Corey and the stranger stare at each other, deciding whether they’re finished. “You’re welcome,” the man says. He runs a hand through his matted hair and turns to leave. Corey observes his thin, pink lips, watches his feminine hips and his graceful but calculated movements. Not wanting him to leave yet, she asks, “Why aren’t you at work?”

“I don’t work.”

“What are you doing then?”

“Watching TV… Taking care of some things around the house.”

“Our internet’s down. Can I go over?”

The man regards this doe-eyed, knobby-kneed girl who’s too young to look so broken. He decides there’s something appealingly tragic about her and answers, “Sure.”

“One sec.” Corey runs up and grabs keys, leaving her roommate’s box downstairs. She returns, and the pair walks a few hundred meters west to the man’s house.

—

There is nothing unique about his one-story lodgings. It’s messy, dated, and smells of weed. Corey sits on the upholstered floral couch arm as the man finds where he had left off in Orange Is the New Black.

“Do you watch this show?”

“I don’t really watch TV.” She kicks her heels impatiently against the couch.

The man sits, creating a sinkhole, and picks up a half-finished bowl of marijuana. He smokes it then passes it to Corey, who declines with a wave of hand. She grabs the stack of mail from his table and looks through it. Envelopes addressed to Bradley Panagakos: bills from T-Mobile, Time Warner, multiple letters from the State of California.

“Are you on unemployment?”

“I’m on disability.”

Corey looks at Brad, and he tries not to notice her inspecting him. She finally nods, unable to pin his exact disability but content to find it plausible that he has one.

“How’d you get this house?”

“It was my mom’s.”

“Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

“Have you lived here all your life?”

Bradley pauses the show, yielding to the fact they’re going to have an actual conversation. “I lived in New York for seventeen years, doing drag, before returning to LA.”

“What happened? Why’d you come back?”

“Heartbreak, Darling. It’s always heartbreak.”

Corey looks down, playing with the ends of her hair. “You were in love?”

“Yes.” Brad tells in a maternal falsetto, “His name was Ricky Mendoza. He was dark, stylish, and hung like a horse. He came to every one of my shows, and he’d take me out afterwards. We spent every night together for seven years. Then he married Marta, who was introduced to him by his parents. They have two boys in high school and three little girls.”

“So you came all the way back because of some guy,” Corey says with a bit of contempt.

“That, and I lost every last penny to a meth addiction. How about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

She thinks for a moment. “There’s this guy, Tommy. I have sex with him sometimes.”

Brad coyly draws in a shoulder, “How’d you meet?” 

“We used to work together, at the Walgreens on Sunset and Vine. But he got fired for stealing from the pharmacy.”

“He’s trouble.”

“He’s an idiot,” Corey states. “And he’s lazy. I always have to go to him,” she adds with mellow sourness.

“You know, you’re very pretty,” Brad observes. “You have that damaged fairy look. You could probably make it easily as a clothing model for websites around here.”

“Wouldn’t that require looking up agencies and going to appointments and stuff?”

“Well, yes, it does take a little effort,” Brad retorts sardonically. A unfavorable comment about millennials surfaces his mind, but he decides against voicing it.

Corey looks at him with forlorn saucer eyes. “It’s not that I’m apathetic or careless,” she says. “I just get sad a lot…”

What a charming little thing, Brad concludes. He smiles warmly. “Would you like anything non-alcoholic to drink?”

“Coffee, please?”

Corey watches Bradley move elegantly through the kitchen, raising an arm to open the cabinet, bending at the waist to retrieve milk from the fridge. Every motion, no matter how robust, closes in a soft, albeit inorganic, pose. Corey leans forward, propping her elbows on the counter and her chin in her palms.

“What was your name?” she asks.

Brad sets a mug for her on the table. “My stage name? Ophelia.”

The girl smiles, simmering in the image of a crazed noblewoman adorned with wildflowers, dead at the bottom of a brook. “I like it.”

“You would. You’re a twisted one.”

“Do you have photos? I want to see.”

Bradley rolls his eyes at the lengths this child is making him go. From the back of his closet, he pulls out a crooked box filled with sequined fabric and fake hair. He digs to its bottom and presents a stack of photos whose white backs are starting to yellow. Corey flips through them. Ophelia has wild black hair, savage eyes, ivory skin, and a strong, hawk nose. She keeps with varied company: leggy gypsies, busty blondes, feline geishas, and mighty Amazonians. Ophelia is in love. Ricky has buzzed hair and wears a leather jacket and corduroy pants. He stands erect, facing the camera straight-on and puffing his chest. Ophelia, two heads taller than her man, poses with one leg crossed behind the other in a curtsy and both hands perched daintily on his arm.

The last photo is Ophelia on stage. She is a lioness. Her hands are propped on her brick wall hips. Her broad, straight shoulders are angled almost perpendicularly to her bottom half, making her waist the size of a pinhead. The curls of her thick black mane frame an irresistible serpentine mien: chin down, eyes electric, mouth popped.

“You’re beautiful,” Corey exclaims quietly.

“Thank you.”

She mulls something over. “When was the last time you performed?”

Brad laughs. “Oh probably twelve or thirteen years ago.”

Corey looks at him with round and guileless eyes. “Can you teach me?”

—

Bradley applies thick white paste and many layers of powder to Corey’s straight brows until they disappear and steep, jet-black peaks are drawn in their place. Her supple, young skin is hidden under oil foundation. Her small nose is aggressively contoured, and her eyes are hooded with brush bristle lashes. She wears a heaping black wig and white lace gown, which, despite the generous addition of breast and hip pads, still hangs much too loosely off her tiny frame. She looks in the mirror, raising both arms overhead and popping her hip.

“What’s your name?”

Corey answers, “Nastasya Filipovna.”

Brad guides her to the middle of the room and moves the couch. “Let’s see you walk!” he orders, like a young girl playing school teacher.

Nastasya shuffles down their makeshift runway, stepping one foot directly in front of the other and flinging her arms. She stops before Brad and turns with her hand on her hip. She bends at the knees and sticks out her butt. Bradley raises his eyebrows, and Corey’s posture crumbles. She laughs, turning pink.

“I don’t know. Show me.”

Ophelia struts with strong, flexed legs and pointed feet. Each sway of her hips is drastic and intentional–feminine, but neither fluttery nor delicate. Her arms snake, as anacondas, back and forth, and her fingers remain curled at the tips. She poses from every part of her: the reach of her neck, the bend in her elbow, the tension in her upper lip, the opera of her breath. Corey watches Ophelia, and she longs to breathe like her.

Ophelia turns to the girl. “Take your time. Think: who is Nastasya?”

Corey meditates for a moment, wide-eyed, staring intently at Brad’s laminate wood flooring. She inhales deeply from the pit of her stomach, like she’d learned once in a free yoga class. Slowly raising her head, Nastasya lengthens her neck and cocks her chin. She moves ghostlike, bending deeply at the knee and languidly drawing one leg before the other. Her arms are gangly, twisting in all directions, her wrists are bent, and her fingers are curled. Nastasya’s countenance is comprised of mighty jaw, closed lips, poised and icy eyes that never break contact. For her final pose, she thrusts back her head and slams down on one knee, dangling her arms. Her chest, facing the sky, heaves heavily up and down.

Brad remarks, “Not exactly drag… But you got it!” He applauds hardily.

An authentically girlish smile breaks across Corey’s face.

—

The setting sun draws a close to this atypical communion, and Corey leaves as barefaced as she’d been coming in. She gives Brad a tight hug.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Honey.”

They linger on either side of the door.

“I live just down the street…”

“Of course. My home is always open.”

Corey smiles. “I’ll see you, Ophelia.”

“Until next time, Nastasya.”

The expired man closes his door and reassumes his worn position before the TV as the lost girl wanders back to her current residence, both half-believing in their empty promises to each other.

—

Corey is in her room again, and she sprawls out on her bed. The air feels fresher. She takes as many breaths as possible, while it lasts.

Trey stretches his neck side to side, releasing some tension built at the top of his spine.

“It’ll be another thirty to forty minutes.” The sturdy, bleach blonde hostess apologizes, “Our kitchen’s backed up.”

The tired man drops down on a bench and starts reviewing messages. One in all caps cracks a smile on his taxed face: SAUSAGE ON HALF ONLY, DAD! Alana had adopted vegetarianism last month after watching a documentary in her health class. Trey shakes his head at the capricious nature of that decision, though he’s a little proud she’s kept it up.

The lawyer stares ahead, falling into non-thought. He doesn’t think about this clause, or whether that claim reads on prior art. He doesn’t even think of his daughter’s soccer tournament or his wife’s job promotion. He needs a moment of nothing. A man at the booth across from him waves. Trey recognizes his next door neighbor. He rises to approach the table, mustering congeniality along the way.  

“Kolya! When’d you get back?” He asks in strapping baritone.

“Two nights ago!” exclaims a melodious, slightly shrill inflection. “Sit! How’ve you been?”–he waves down the waitress–“What do you want to drink?”  

“Just water. Thanks.” Trey observes the film producer’s glowing complexion. “How was your trip? Doesn’t look like they worked you too hard, you look great.”

“It must be the vegan diet Zanne’s got us on.”

“You kept that up even in Shanghai?”

“How’s Eve? I saw she’s cut her hair,” Kolya switches topics, as is characteristic of him. 

“She decided to go short.” Trey reflects on his wife’s resolve, “It looks great.”

A slender, short-haired waitress arrives with a glass of water and a large plate of steak and eggs. Trey stares at the gaping mistake.

“Don’t tell my wife,” Kolya says to the girl, igniting her high-pitched laughter.

Trey watches his neighbor cut into the porterhouse, taking big bites with generous gulps of liquor like a ravenous teenage boy.

“Well, you do look good. Younger…” he comments.

Kolya stops eating and looks up. “Would you like to know how that is?”

“What’s your secret?”

Kolya states plainly, “I met someone.”

Trey wasn’t expecting that. “Is everything all right with Suzanne?”

“Love her more than ever.” The producer says as if it’s a completely separate matter, “I met someone overseas.”

“An associate?”

“No. The fruit girl. She sold peaches.”

“You fell in love with a girl who sells peaches?”

Kolya nods jauntily. “She was very pretty: long eyes, burnt cheeks, small, pointed chin. But that’s not what got me…”

Trey calls for the server, and his friend goes on, “Beautiful women are everywhere, especially in LA–no matter what your type, you can find first-rates here.”

Trey orders a drink from their lithe, boyish waitress with the protruding bottom lip.

“I love my wife, but every once in awhile I meet a bombshell. Completely different and irresistible.”

A stout, athletic woman with waist-length dark hair passes, and Trey admires her figure.  

“However, I’d never been unfaithful before.”

Kolya says this while devouring red meat and liquor. His attorney friend smiles, “So you do have some degree of self-control.”

“It has nothing to do with discipline,” Kolya asserts, “The moment these nymphs open their mouths, I’m turned off. They’re… agitated. And hungry. There’s always an underlying need: a movie role, a BMW, a ring. And even the intellectual types, ones with doctorates–they’re nonstop discussion of politics or modern art, stuffed with these conceptions and ideas.”

“And this girl was, what?–Vapid?”

Kolya smiles at the quip. He finishes chewing. “The fruit stand was between my hotel and office. It wasn’t until the third day that my senses started clearing from jetlag and air pollution, and I noticed bright pink and white peaches. Shanghai’s known for shui mi peaches. When I pay, this cute girl receives my cash, leaving a warm impression, but I forget her by the time I get to work.” He cuts another narrow piece of meat. “I pass the stand the next day and remember how good the peaches were, so I get a bag of hard white peaches for the office. I take out my wallet, and the girl looks at me like I’m an idiot,” he remarks. “It caught me off guard. I hadn’t felt awkward or silly in a long time. She fills another bag with soft peaches, so soft the skin might rub off. I ask amusedly, ‘I picked wrong?’ She answers, ‘You were wrong yesterday, too,’ and her laugh is sweet and simple, unlike that played out aspartamey giggle you get in metropolitan areas.”

The blonde hostess interrupts, touching Trey’s shoulder. “It’ll be about 40 minutes. We had to relight the oven.” She sets down his drink, displaying fleshy breasts through a plunging neckline. “On the house. So sorry about that!”

Trey announces his irritably while she’s still in hearing range, “Would you believe she said that to me 20 minutes ago?” He looks at his watch. “Friend, you have 40 minutes to finish your story.”

Kolya speaks faster, in a more relaxed, animated manner. “Anyway, her attitude was attractive. She was kind without overt flirtation. I guess you could say she was professional. And she wasn’t deprived. She was content at her fruit stand, and we communicated on an even level somehow. It could’ve easily been an innocent friendship if it weren’t for the fact I found her sexy. Rustic as she was, she had a slender neck, plump, white arms and beautiful hands. Her movements were soft but not timid. She was a thorough diversion, and I went there every morning.”

“What’d you do with all the peaches?”

“I gave them to clients, the reception, even custodians!”

“Your office must’ve thought you were a saint.”

“They were mistaken.”

“So, you took her out?”

“Yeah. On my second to last day, she’s picking another bag, I give her a bill, and the motions feel silly. ‘You know I don’t need any more peaches,’ I say. She smiles involuntarily and looks away. I couldn’t help it. I ask, ‘What are you doing tonight?’ and her expression changes. I’m afraid I’ve offended her. ‘Have you heard of the restaurant Hua Ma Tian Tang?’ I say coolly. ‘I’d like to try it, but I don’t have friends here. Do you have any interest in being a dining partner, and interpreter?’ She responds, ‘The staff must speak better English than I do.’ I shrug. ‘It’s just a friendly thought, and a favor to me. You can think about it.’ I stop by again after work, and honestly, I’m tired. I’m indifferent to her response, because I might just order room service. But she gives me an evaluative look and agrees to be an interpreter, so we plan to meet there at eight. When my cab pulls up to the restaurant, she’s already talking to the valet.” Kolya pauses and casts a dramatic, nostalgic gaze. “She’s in a lavender dress, and she looks incredible… It’s proven to me now, indisputably, that money is no measure of taste,” Kolya states with an air of gentility. 

The small man resumes his brisk cadence. “I have her look at the menu. I was there on business the night before and already knew the best dishes, but I was curious to see how she’d pick. I naturally assumed the quality of food and environment would impress her. However, she kept guarded. She was appreciative, but not grateful, and most annoyingly, she was focused on being an interpreter. At the time, I didn’t want anything more than to gain her favor, but I was determined.” He wipes off crumbs from the table. “I take her for ice cream, we walk along the beach, and I go in at a different angle. I confess that I’m a little sad to return home; ‘It’s hard to admit this, but I’ve felt relief the past few days,’ I say, struggling. She flashes her eyes and asks why. ‘A complicated web’s woven for me there… Every action has an objective–it’s just how people are. Simple meals with friends end in favor requests. My wife chooses charities based on lobby groups, and she strategizes my son’s playdates. I’m not sure that she loves me, or that she’s just fixated on making her marriage work.'” Kolya says to Trey, “Ian might be held back for literacy issues. Can you believe that?” He admits, “I’m angry at myself for not noticing sooner. And I’m absolutely infuriated at myself for being ashamed. I’m ashamed of my son, that he could have a disability.”

Trey had general knowledge of the facts, but he didn’t know what lies beneath them. He looks at his friend and sits in silent solidarity.

Kolya drinks. “She looks at me with soft, morose eyes. I knew then that I had her. I ask about her dreams and passions. She tells me her plans of expanding the fruit stand to offer dessert. The man down the street sells tapioca milk dessert using canned fruit. I ask why she doesn’t collaborate with him. She tells me that since she has the best peaches, she will need the freshest milk and the perfect tapioca–he doesn’t have either. ‘Ah,’ I remark, ‘and you’d charge a premium?’ But she corrects my confusion. The price of the dessert is five yuan everywhere, and no one would pay more without a storefront. At this point, melted ice cream runs down to her elbow, and she bends back her arm to lick it off with her large tongue. I can’t take it.

‘What?’ she says.

‘How is it you’re so clever, and so attractive?’

She smiles but sees through me.

‘You must think I’m silly,” I say. “I’m infatuated by meaningless ranks, I make cheap entertainment for profit’s sake. Do you think I lack passion?’

She answers, ‘Yes. But it can come back.’

I tell her I feel good around her. She says nothing and bites into her cone, so I remove it from her and lick cold cream from her lips.”

Kolya, finished with his meal, sits back. “We make love,” he states unaffectedly. “She goes to rinse the sand from her hair, and I get dressed. As I’m putting on my sock, I’m overcome by sudden loathing. Ten years I’d been faithful to my wife, and I discard it for some juvenile, simple girl who will probably never leave a 200 mile radius of this beach. I feel duped. I’d believed in her wholeness and her purity, ‘but she’s like the rest,’ I think. She could easily marry a hard-working, handsome boy from her hometown. Even a college graduate or small business owner if she keeps a clean reputation. Yet she sleeps with a married, foreign film producer. If she were serious about getting anything done, she’d cut her risk and work with the dessert seller a few stands down. But she’s unrealistic, and she wants to climb, like every other stupid young girl. I feel I might release my anger on her, so I leave. I go back to my room, watch half an hour of international news and order a glass of warm milk before going to bed.”

Kolya looks to Trey with an exposed and rancorous expression. “You must think I’m heartless.”

Trey finishes his drink. “Actually, I think you’re a romantic,” he says dryly, “Who believes there’s a story to life.” Spotting the waitress with his food, Trey stands. “Eve and I are able to make it to dinner this Sunday, by the way.”

His friend smiles. “I’ll let Zanne know.”

Trey moves toward the exit. 

“Trey.” Kolya says contemplatively.

Trey looks back at him.

“Keep me posted about Viewpoint Elementary, will you?”

“Right, right. Eve’s having lunch with the admissions counselor on Wednesday.”

“Thank you,” Kolya says with full sincerity.

—

Trey secures the pizza and large salads in his passenger seat. He pulls out of the restaurant parking lot, and his phone rings.

A firm, husky voice, “Your family is starving, T.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if you already had a pot roast in the oven for me?”

“You know I’m not that kind of wife.”

Trey laughs. “I’m on my way. I ran into Kolya, actually.”

“That’s nice. How was his trip?”

“It went well. You know how he is. I ask him about his day, and he gives me a five-act oral presentation.”

Eve giggles. “Let me guess: he was swimming in red meat and alcohol, too, despite Zanne’s efforts.”

“No, actually, he stuck to the diet.”

“Is that so?” She says, impressed. “Well, I can’t wait to eat way too much sausage pizza, so hurry home. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Ethan takes a paring knife to the large vanilla sheet cake featuring an edible print of a smiling, mid-twenties Caucasian male and the promise “We’ll Miss You!” written above it in blue frosting. There’s a swift hit to his hand. A small woman fires an iron glare honed by decades of mothering. She advises, “Please go out and make an appearance,” before exiting with a tray of cheeses. Ethan stares at the grainy image, focuses in on that cheap grin. The cake looks like a memorial for someone who’s passed away. He cuts a square around the face.

“Mom’s gonna be pissed!” chimes a voice too shrill for a boy of fifteen.

Ethan turns to his younger brother. “It’s my cake,” he says.

The boy shrugs.

“You want a piece? Here.” He hands him the cutout of his face, and his brother goes to eat in secret. The guest of honor opens his third Brooklyn Lager and takes an easy sip. This one will last him through the night. Ethan watches partygoers trickle in the door: mostly gray-haired couples, his parents’ friends, and a few former classmates he hasn’t seen in three to seven years. There must not be anything better to do on a Saturday night in Michigan.

“Do you know where the bathroom is?” An Indian guy with gelled hair and pointed toe shoes peers into the kitchen.

“I think it’s that way,” Ethan says as if he doesn’t know.

The visitor goes down the hall. Ethan’s attendees are only recognizable through Facebook photos. The men have gotten fatter, the women look terser, and all have become better dressed. Ethan thinks for a moment of how his party consists only of unfamiliars. He wouldn’t have been able to come up with a better guest list anyway.

The Indian guy returns. “Is there more beer in the fridge?” he asks.

Ethan hands him one.

“Thanks, man. I’m Raj. How do you know Ethan?”

Ethan responds, “I went to school with him.”

“High School or College?”

“College.”

“Nice. I’m at Ross for my MBA,” Raj says as if it means something.

Ethan nods perfunctorily. “Did you go to undergrad with Ethan?”

“No, I went to Cornell. My girlfriend brought me here. No idea who Ethan is, but this guy’s apparently MIA at his own party.”

“Typical Ethan. He’s kind of irresponsible.”

“I guess. I can’t tell if he’s dumb, or if he just doesn’t care.”

Ethan straightens his back. “What do you mean?”

“He wasted a full-ride to UM on a philosophy major. Then he worked at some bar in Chicago for like, six years, and now his parents are throwing him a lame party because he’s going to teach English in Korea? This dude is 29.”

“29 is young.”

“Yeah, for like, buying a house or starting your own business. My 21-year-old cousin just graduated, and she’s going to teach English in Korea. It’s what people do when they don’t know what they’re doing.”

Ethan stares flatly at Raj. “Who’d you say you came here with again?”

“My girlfriend, Stacey.”

“Stacey Anderson?” Ethan drinks to that.

Raj doesn’t like the way he said her name. “Yeah. You know her?”

“She was Ethan’s first girlfriend. He took her virginity in the backseat of his dad’s Explorer.”

“I highly doubt that,” Raj says, disengaged. “Stacey went to undergrad out of state.”

“Nah, man. They were fourteen.” Ethan flashes his tongue. He strolls into the living room, wishing to make a clean break to the porch for a cigarette. Ethan’s not a smoker, but he enjoys the occasional nicotine rush to top off a mild buzz. A few people greet him with cheerful looks of recognition. He keeps walking and pretends they’ve mistaken him for someone else.

“Ethan!” calls a well-known, vibrant voice, which as of recent, he’s heard only over the phone. This is someone he’ll stop for. Kate; he hasn’t seen her in almost three years. They hug, and Ethan notes she still smells like peaches and Cetaphil. But there’s a hard bump between them. Kate tracks his eyes to her stomach and flushes. She rubs her belly. “Five months,” she says, beaming. Ethan looks at the rest of Kate. She’s cut her hair short and wears darker colors, but there’s something markedly changed in her expression and the way she stands. Her gaze is firm, grounded.

“You look good,” she says.

“Not as good as you.”

She smiles. He can still make her blush.

“When’s your flight tomorrow?”

“8am.”

“That’s early for you.”

“Afraid I won’t make it?”

“No. You will,” she says confidently.

A tall, mid-thirties man with glasses approaches. He wraps his arm around Kate. “Ethan Wood: my biggest threat,” he jokes. Kate rolls her eyes and laughs. Ethan tries to detect artifice in him, but there isn’t any.

“Nice to finally meet.” Jeff raises his drink, and Ethan brings his bottle to the man’s wine glass. They clink.

“Brooklyn Lager? You been holding out on me?”

“There’s more in the fridge. I’ll get you one later.”

“I look forward to that.” Her husband’s self-assurance casts a presence larger than his wiry frame. He looks around. “So how’s the company? Are we up to par?”

“Of course,” Ethan says cordially.

“Well Farmington Hills can’t beat Chicago, and it definitely isn’t Seoul. Will this be your first trip to Asia?”

“Yeah. I heard you’ve been a few times. Any pointers?”

Jeff brushes it off, “I’ve only been for a week at a time, mainly for work. Never got the chance to sink my feet in.” He graces Ethan with a look of envy, “Living there’s going to be exciting.”

“That’s what I hear.”

Jeff looks at him. Though Ethan’s responses are plainly cursory, they don’t come off as disingenuous. Jeff isn’t sure if it’s confidence or indifference that he’s reading in Ethan, but he likes it.

“I should make a few rounds and say, ‘hi.’ I’ll find you later for that beer.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll see you,” Jeff says.

Kate waves, and Ethan goes onto the patio. No one’s there. He relishes a moment of satisfaction. Ethan sits on the porch swing and stares out at his parents’ lawn, a black mass, though the line between ground and sky is lit by orange porch lighting and the moon. He lights a Camel and thinks about how he and Kate used to sleep, her armpit resting against his upper arm, his hand cupping her right breast, which was a little smaller than her left one. In a few months, those breasts will be lactating.

The sliding door opens and closes. A girl of twenty-three, her hair in a ponytail and a red cup in her hand, comes onto the porch. “Hey, you.” She sits next to Ethan.

He gives her a hug. Jenna’s skin has cleared up, and she’s fixed her eyebrows. Ethan stares for a minute before abruptly looking away. Damn, she got attractive.

Jenna flashes a knowing smile. “Have you seen my sister yet?”

“Yeah. She’s very… pregnant,” Ethan says. He adds sincerely, “Kate’s doing really well.”

“Cheers.” Jenna knocks her drink against his.

“How’s school going? You’re at, what? Columbia Law now?”

“Mhm. Just a lot of reading,” she says disinterestedly.

“Well I’m glad you got to make it back for Thanksgiving.”

“Thanksgiving? No, I came for your party.” She brings up a leg and sits on it. “I was like, ‘No effing way – Ethan Wood’s gonna be in Michigan for five days only, and then he’s leaving for fucking Seoul? I have to see him!”

“Ha. Good to know I have at least one fan here.”

“What are you talking about? We adore you,” she drawls with excessive sentiment.

“Get the fuck off my porch.”

Jenna laughs. Ethan smiles and taps some ash off his cigarette.

“But, really. I think it’s cool what you’re doing,” she says.

“Tutoring rich kids in a highly-developed country?”

“Living at whatever pace you feel is fit.”

“What; you don’t think I’m going at the same pace as everyone else?”

“Come on, Ethan,” she looks at him bluntly. “But it doesn’t matter. Because you know what you’re doing.”

Ethan says nothing.

“You know, I wouldn’t have gone to Harvard if it weren’t for you.”

“Okay, you had me at ‘you know what you’re doing.’ This is too much.”

“I’m serious. Remember that time we went to pick up Kate from the airport, and her flight was delayed, so we went to McDonald’s?”

“Sure.”

“Well I had just gotten rejected from Harvard undergrad. Remember that? And I was gonna go to UM instead, but Harvard was my top choice, even though I knew it was out of reach.”

“I remember.”

“Well, you probably forgot what you said to me. But I was moping, so upset that I could barely eat my big mac combo—my god, I can’t believe I used to finish that shit—and you said, ‘so defer a year,’ like it was no big deal.”

“Damn. Well, you were easy.”

Jenna shoves him. “You went on to tell me about how your Junior year, you wanted to take my sister to Homecoming. But Kate was a Senior, and she had a boyfriend. And Amber whomever the fuck wanted to go with you, but you asked Kate instead. She rejected you, of course.” Jenna raises her finger, “A few months later though, she found her boyfriend cheating and dumped him. And a few months after that, you took her to Prom.”

Ethan nods, staring at the lawn. “I’m glad you held out.”

Jenna squeezes his hand. “I’m gonna miss you.”

Ethan looks at her. She stares up at him, a piece of her hair out of place and her small mouth curved downward. Ethan kisses Jenna. She tastes like Sprite and vodka. She kisses back. Her movements are modest, but he can feel that she’s been waiting for it. Ethan puts his tongue in Jenna’s mouth and squeezes her thigh. He thrusts his hand down the front of her jeans. She pushes him off.

Jenna looks at him, surprised, and then with pity. She stands up. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she says and goes back inside.

Ethan drinks the remainder of his beer slowly. He feels the bubbles on his tongue and the lightness between his temples. It isn’t too chilly for a November night in Michigan. As long as there’ll be cute Korean girls, and he can get an American Lager at the bars in Seoul, he’ll be set.

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.