“Oh man,” Clyde said, deliberately shifting the conversation. “Today a guy came into the store asking for a book to give to his girlfriend. He says, ‘What’s the one about the famous magician? The one with Leonardo DiCaprio?’ And I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”

“Oh no,” Allison said.

“And suddenly I realize what he’s talking about. I ask him, ‘Do you mean … The Great Gatsby?’ And he’s all relieved. ‘Yes! Dude, thank you!’”

“It is a pretty misleading title,” Jake said.

“It should be about a magician,” Leslie said. “A magician who hypnotizes women into thinking he’s Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“We didn’t have Gatsby, so I gave him Tropic of Cancer,” Clyde said. “I told him it was an island hospital romance.”

“He went to the islands for love,” Allison said. “But what he found … was cancer.”

“Well, it’s not like this girlfriend actually reads books, anyway,” Leslie said. “Girlfriend, in quotes. Sorry we’re being such assholes.”

Jake was sitting back with a polite smile on his face.

“At least he was trying, right?” he said.

Leslie wasn’t a big fan of the new sincerity that had bludgeoned her supposed generation, but she could be down with decency, if she had to be.

“Everyone respects everyone,” Allison said in her kindergarten-teacher voice. She handed out bowls and they lined up at the stove.

It was nearly dark and they lay on the floor, full of lentils, listening to After the Gold Rush.

“Neil fucking Young, man,” Allison said. “He knows only love can break your heart.”

“I think sadness could, too, though,” Leslie said. “Where’s that Jake?”

“He’s smoking a cigarette,” Clyde said. “Cuz he wants to die.”

“Hey, me, too,” Leslie said.

She went out the back door through the kitchen and put her hand on Jake’s shoulder.

“Gimme,” she said.

He handed her one and lit it with a Mariners lighter.

“I’m getting tired of this town, you know?” she said. She let out a burst of smoke. “I mean, it’s fucked up, because obviously it’s better than most places. But sometimes it’s like, God, what am I doing? I’m just going to be forgotten here. Sorry, you seem cool so I’m ranting at you.”

“Who’s going to forget you?” Jake said.

“People in cities. The old, fake America. I should move back to New York and be a brand consultant or whatever.”

“Yeah, follow your dreams,” Jake said.

“Well, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know, man. Working on some poetry. Figuring out how to dedicate my energy toward something moderately positive. Picking up some paychecks when I can.”

“Could be worse,” she said.

“Probably ends badly, though,” he said. “Gonna be a lotta slow singing, and flower bringing, et cetera.” The man knew his Biggie—a sign? He put out his cigarette and dropped it in the Mason jar full of butts by the back door.