Sometimes it boils over into a mix of hostility and anger: a longing for her to call while fantasizing about rejecting her offer of reconciliation. He wonders when he’ll have another sexual experience aided by more than his own hand and his porn stash.
So, when his phone abruptly buzzes to life in that very hand, it’s reasonable to conclude that he’d conjured a text from Sophie with the power of regret and self-pity. He gives himself a half-second to imagine her sheepish, apologetic message before glancing at the screen.
But it’s not Sophie’s name.
* * *
ARI CURLS UP on her air mattress—as much as one can curl up on a large plastic balloon—her fingers hovering over the keyboard, on the verge of the last line for another maid-of-honor speech on NeverTired.
Ari’s been describing the apartment as “empty,” but that’s not exactly true. It’s full of piles: piles of clothes, piles of books, piles of random shit she never bothered to put away that used to be on the nightstand. Which is also gone.
Several times, Ari has felt the automatic impulse to clean up the piles, in case Cass comes home late and stumbles over them in the dark.
But no one’s coming home anymore.
No one’s sending a wildly inaccurate ETA text with the kiss emoji.
No one’s getting up in the middle of the night to make kimchi grilled cheese sandwiches when Ari has the munchies.
No one’s purchasing the ingredients, either. There’s just a steady diet of microwave popcorn, takeout, and bowls of cereal. Cooking had been Cass’s thing. Ari had moved in and joined Cass’s life, already in progress.
Maybe it’s the emptiness of the room that emboldens her. Ari pulls her T-shirt over her head and snaps a couple selfies. Very tasteful, she decides after reviewing them. Definitely not trying too hard. She goes into the messages app to unblock Cass, sends the selfie, and blocks her again.
There. Some little gremlin inside her feels sated.
Ari likes to imagine that Cass tries to respond with words like Yes, please and More. Or maybe just the tongue emoji. But as long as Ari has her blocked, these responses live in a liminal zone. They are Schr?dinger’s text messages.
Ari opens Netflix—Cass still hasn’t changed the password—and lets the cursor hover over the looping trailer for one of those Hallmark-esque holiday romances. The thought of watching this alone, while eating an entire sleeve of saltines and drinking wine from the bottle, feels unbearably sad, even though that’s probably how this film is consumed most of the time.
These things are only fun if there’s someone else to appreciate her snarky commentary.
Thur, Oct 13, 10:03 p.m.
Ari: u up?
Wanna do shrooms and watch the 4th Christmas prince movie???
10:11 p.m.
Radhya: bitch I’m roasting swordfish for another hour
any update on the beer garden?
Ari: yes!
your pop-up is ON for January 15
（and I didn’t even have to exchange sexual favors）
we can go over there next week and talk beer pairings
he said to go heavy on the salt
Radhya: thx Twattie
Ari: anytime, Cum Slut
Ari falls back on her pillow, making the plastic mattress squeak and echo around the naked walls.
She sighs. The sound seems to bounce.
Her right thumb scrolls through her contact list and circles the biggest boy twice before pressing down. Why the hell not?
Thur, Oct 13, 10:13 p.m.
Ari: Wanna hatewatch a mediocre movie with me?
Josh: I thought movies were off-limits due to your inability to keep your pants on the moment you see the Netflix logo.
Ari: yes, for the sake of my virtue, we will not be in the same room
We turn on a movie at the same time and watch it together while we text
Her device lights up with an incoming call.
“Dude,” she says, “what is your obsession with talking on the phone? Who even makes actual calls anymore?”
“I’m not going to spend an entire movie texting on an even tinier screen. Or are you going to talk incessantly so that I can’t hear the dialogue?”
“Oh, you won’t want to hear the dialogue.” Ari sits up on the air mattress. “Because we’ll be watching The Expendables—”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s the perfect choice for our overwhelming isolation and fear of dying alone. Even the title speaks to me.” She lies back on her pillow and the air mattress squeaks in protest. “And I won’t lose the plot while I fold my laundry.”
“Do you even own a dresser for the clean clothes?” he asks.