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wildly and never knew. She rolled onto her side, sweating. Her crotch thumped like a big, wet heart.
    Curtis stirred, as if in response to Kit’s rising body temperature, the zinging nerves between her legs. He shimmied under the covers and stationed himself between Lucy’s feet.
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    In the morning Kit felt like a criminal. Lucy tromped around in her skimpy robe, Curtis following close behind.
    â€œI made eggs,” Lucy said, gesturing toward the stove.
    â€œGreat,” Kit said, reaching a slender monkeyish arm out for her clothes, which were scattered by the bed, much in the manner of Lucy’s socks.
    Lucy twisted a strand of gold hair around her pointer finger. “I used to think you didn’t eat. Cause you’re like,
emaciated
.”
    â€œI know. I look exactly like my mom. She’s built like a broom.”
    â€œMy mom’s built like a refrigerator.”
    â€œOh come on.”
    â€œShe
is
.”
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    They were both sitting on the black couch when Ned scheduled their appointment for the following week. Sheila responded with a look of mild revulsion as she penciled it in. Kit pretended to ignore the look but took it to heart. Later on, she called the number on Ned’s business card, which in the right-hand corner had a cartoon tooth. It was smiling and had a set of its own teeth. She held the card with her thumb over the tooth while arranging for him to fork over the extra amount in cash. “If you screw us over in any way,” she said, “I won’t see you again.”
    Kit saw a number of men that week and avoided Lucy. She paid off one of her credit cards. She learned that Sheila designed clothes when a small green dress appeared on the arm of the black couch. Sheila asked in an oddly sweet tone if Kit would model it for her. She was smiling but a look of scorn remained in her eyes, pulsing dimly. “I need to see it on someone small,” she said.
    The dress fit Kit remarkably well and she couldn’t help admiring it, but this only depressed her. It meant Sheila was something other than an asshole. She was an artist.
    Kit bought herself a handsome leather-bound journal that day. She put an aqua mason jar full of sharpened pencils on the windowsill by her bed. Then she tried to write but couldn’t.Ragged stray thoughts circled in her mind. Kit didn’t want to sit alone with her life, with the memories of a hundred male voices. She didn’t want to fuss over how to describe their faces. Instead she walked around her apartment, smoking pot from a glass pipe with the stereo on. She played Nico, who sounded like a prostitute to her, used and woeful.
These days I seem to think a lot about the things that I forgot to do. And all the times I had the chance to.
    In the morning Kit grabbed the leather journal and jotted down her dream, which felt remotely like a tribute to Ned’s wife. She wrote in a panic, the dream whirling and vanishing. It felt deeply important as she raced on, snatching bits of the fleeing dream. Then she set her pen down and read the frayed, mystical prose with satisfaction. It seemed to be proof of something. That she had an inside.
I exist,
she wrote and instantly felt foolish, scribbling over the words.
    Next she stood at the stove brewing espresso in a small steel pot, then went straight back to bed and sipped from her mug, a brown-tone afghan up over her shoulders. She watched hours of reality TV, which felt sleazy.
This is the pornography of our lives,
she thought.
    Kit wondered if Ned’s daughter was dead yet. She hated to think of him sobbing alongside a hospital bed with a little girl on it.
What is the difference between me and her?
she thought.
Between a daughter and a whore?
Possession,
thought Kit.
His daughter belongs to him.
    But they were girls in the same sea, she felt. Both their values had been established in relation to Ned’s sperm. It