Leslie nodded and sipped her beer. That was Kim—toasting the new century, not the last one. Kim was a wreck, too, but at least she was an optimist. She kept moving forward, maybe because she was trying to get past her family, even as she was spending all of her spare time trying to write about them. She was doing it, she would probably say, in the interest of resolving her feelings toward the past, and that was a worthy goal. Leslie worried that, for her, writing might simply be a further excuse to retreat deeper into herself, to interact with the world on the prearranged terms of her own choosing rather than the world’s actual terms, whatever those turned out to be. She didn’t believe that she would be able to both exist in the world of realistic expectations and fulfill the expectations she had for herself, expectations she had barely allowed herself to admit that she possessed. She knew, from talking to other losers, that imagining you were talented was the first step to a life of self-pity and disappointment.

“Well, so what are you going to write next?” Kim asked, interrupting some banter that Cal was having with a punk couple about an upcoming house show by a band called Fat History Month.

“I’ve started a couple of things,” Cal said. “I kind of need to decide between the early twentieth century and, like, way before that. I mean, okay, I know the Revolutionary War’s been done to death but it still hasn’t been done, like … sexy, you know?”

“You’re going to do Rev War for the ladies?” Leslie said.

“Well, for at least some of them,” Cal said. “Not in a feminist way. Just, like, hey, people had lots of interesting sex back then, too. Men and women.”

“I really can’t tell if you’re joking,” Leslie said.

“Okay, Leslie,” Kim said.

“I’m just talking,” Leslie said. “At least I’m not bothering you about your shit.”

“We’re all admiring your restraint,” Kim said.

Cal put his hand on hers from across the table.

“Les is just being the smart one,” he said. “It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it.”

“What does that mean?” Leslie said.

“I just mean you always think everything through,” Cal said. “That’s what I love about you. That’s why we need you.”

Cal’s face glowed pink in the neon light of the bar’s window sign, giving his affability a demonic cast. The “we” in this speech was embarrassing, worse even than the “I” and the “you.”

“I think you’re overestimating me,” Leslie said.