“You’re going to make Kim Jong-un confront all his exes?”
“Vadis, will you excuse us?”
Vadis groaned, pushing herself away from the table, lowering her head in his direction as she did. She scooped her pussy willows up off the floor. Once she was gone, Clive hiked up his pant leg and sat on the edge of the table.
“Lola, think of it as A Christmas Carol.”
“Yeah, by way of The Exorcist.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t know. I know the whole thing seems sneaky.”
“Sneaky? Am I five? It seems amoral.”
“There was no way for you to know. Look how you’re reacting. You would’ve overridden the whole process. We needed you and the men to just show up.”
“Clive. People are supposed to run into their exes, like, once a year, if that.”
“That’s only because you assume there’s no alternative. But what if you could prepare for the past instead of having it sneak up on you at random?”
“I feel like you’re playing God. Or like you feel like you’re playing God.”
I focused on an arbitrary spot on Clive—a button on his shirt—and imagined him pushing the button into the hole.
There were years of flirty text exchanges in my pocket with every man I’d entertained as partner, however fleetingly. Vadis was right. I was a people hoarder. Sometimes I would pull up an old exchange and feel myself fall backward as if through a tunnel, coming out the other end with emotions that were meant to be memories. It was like sticking a pebble in a wound, then getting frustrated the wound wasn’t healing faster. It was also falsely communal as I reread these men’s words, which weren’t theirs anymore but artifacts of their former selves. It was not healthy to binge episodes of a sitcom starring my ex-boyfriend’s cousin, but I did this like I smoked, with an acknowledgment of each instance as poisonous and yet only the vaguest of acknowledgment that my body was tallying the bill.
“Here,” Clive said, “let me show you something.”
We walked across the hall to the filing cabinets, where he opened several drawers and closed them.
“Ah, behind you.”
I moved aside as he pushed one of the middle drawers. It snapped out into the air. Inside was a laminated sheet with the word MENU on top.
“It’s a prototype,” Clive said, handing me one, “for future scenarios.”
Light from the chandeliers skittered around the text. My hand was shaking, so I held the sheet with both hands:
Welcome to the Golconda. We are pleased to offer the following packages to our members. Please note that due to safety, legal restrictions, and staff limitations, only one package may be selected per calendar year. Prices available upon request.
“Go on,” he said. “Read it out loud so I know where you are.”
I cleared my throat.
“Blood in the Streets: You encounter your ex nonfatally bleeding in the street, having fallen off a bike. Seeing this person in physical danger will cause you to imagine caring for them again, thus providing closure.”
I looked up at his face, at the lines springing from the corners of his eyes.
“You’re pathological. Like a total sociopath.”
“Tomato, potato.”
He flicked the corner of the sheet.
“Hell Is Other People: You watch through a two-way mirror as all your exes find themselves stuck in a room together. You see how long it takes for them to figure out it’s you they have in common. In Flight: You are seated next to an ex every time you board an airplane. Suitable for business travelers. Please note: we are not responsible for flight durations. Jesus.”
“Yeah, that one’s a doozy. Can you imagine flying to Tokyo next to someone who broke your heart?”
“No. You’re a sadist. Hero Worship: Your ex who thinks you’re a terrible person witnesses you yank a child to safety just before a truck comes. Contingent on availability.”
“Of the truck?”
“Of the child.”
“Clive!”
“Prototype!”
“The Station Agent: Ever wish you could find out what your ex really thought of you? We’ll make sure they witness a capital crime, are brought into police custody and hooked up to a sodium thiopental drip. Sex on the Beach: TBD. What’s that?”
“For now? Vodka and peach schnapps.”
“Come on.”
“Prototype!”
“And you’re going to sell these experiences to people? For how much?”
“You don’t want to know.”