Later, as they lay naked in each other’s arms, the mosquito net breathing softly around them, Cleo turned to his profile.
“Frankenstein,” she said, tracing his nose with her finger.
“Cleopatra,” he said.
“Are you okay?”
“From the dive? Not a scratch.”
“No, I meant … Generally.”
He turned to face her.
“I’m just stressed about work. We’re over budget for the year already, and I’m being forced to hire this new copywriter because she’s a woman—”
“I wasn’t asking about work.”
“Then what?”
“Never mind.”
She turned to flick off the bedside lamp.
“Why did you take that bet?” she asked in the darkness.
Frank pulled her closer.
“The story, Cley,” he said. “It’s a damn good story.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
October
Miraculously, I have a new job. It’s a freelance gig at an ad agency as a copywriter. My contract is for three months, with the option to extend. They call this “temp to perm.” I love this phrase. Not only is it palindrome adjacent, it is extremely useful. All situations in life fall into one of these two categories. For example, the fact you are thirty-seven years old and currently live with your mother in New Jersey, I remind myself, is temp. But the shape of your chin is, sadly, perm.
*
Until recently I was living in LA, working in the writer’s room of a show about a clairvoyant cat, but due to creative differences I made my departure. In fact, I was departed. The exact words they used were “invited to leave.” Not even the cat saw it coming.
*
To hell with it. I’m relieved to leave LA, that sinkhole of creative ambition masquerading as an industry town. At least in Fair Lawn, New Jersey, the first question posed isn’t always “TV or film?,” like getting asked “Still or sparkling?” at a restaurant.
*
I’m being shown around the office by Jacky, the creative director’s assistant. She’s in her fifties, with a pouf of blond hair and large blue eyes, lined, disconcertingly, in more blue. Jacky is like a poodle in that her fluffy exterior belies a keen and cunning intelligence.
“No,” she says when she sees where I’m sitting. “Nu-uh. We’re not keeping you here.” She leans over the desk and taps numbers into a phone with practiced efficiency. “Raoul? Hi hon, it’s Jacky. I’m going to need you to help me move a new hire. We have her at the wrong desk. Yup, see you in a few. Thanks, gorgeous.”
She hangs up and turns to me.
“Is there something wrong with this desk?” I ask.
“You’re our only female writer,” she says. “And an actual adult. You’re not sitting in the boondocks with the interns.”
*
The only object on my new desk when I arrive is a mug that says “Always do what you love.” It goes straight into a drawer.
*
My mother is picking fresh mint from the garden for tea when I get home. Her mugs have different bird species painted onto them. Her favorite is the goldfinch. She gives me the red cardinal. She only gives the blackbird to people she doesn’t like.
*
We kill an evening watching Sing Your Heart Out, a singing competition that seems to demand that the singers have endured a life hardship ranging from the very bad （a dead parent or leukemia） to the kind of sad （a dead grandparent or hoarding） to the really stretching it （a dead pet or mono）。 The contestants take turns tearfully recounting their stories in front of a wall advertising an energy drink.
“What song would you sing?” asks my mother.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Something about being a woman? You?”
“Oh, some sexy pop song,” she says. “Really give ’em a show.”
*
My mother’s living room has two sofas, the eating couch and the visitor’s couch. An essay I wrote about nature in the fifth grade hangs on the wall. She said she knew I was a sensitive child when she read the first line: “The park is a place of exquisite beauty and extreme danger.”
*
I watch the car headlights stripe the ceiling and try to make a list of everything I want to do with the rest of my life. I get to number three, “Find my rollerblades,” before the rain starts plucking at the roof and I give myself over to sleep.
*
One downside of my upgraded desk is that I now sit next to an editor named Myke. Myke is tall and sandy-haired with a pale, boneless face. He looks like soft serve. He has a miniature basketball hoop above his desk next to a picture of the Karate Kid.