“How do you like it so far?” I pick up a baby-blue lighter and put it next to my Cook’s.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Time goes by quick.”

A weird mushy feeling washes over me. “Don’t let it slip by too fast,” I say. I remember being her age, eighteen or nineteen. I was pregnant, and it feels like yesterday.

“I won’t, ma’am,” she says. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Marlboro Ultra Lights,” I say.

She walks over to the wall to grab a pack.

“Actually, make that two,” I say. TGIF.

She swipes my card. “Have a good evening, Ms. Webster.”

“Call me Dawn,” I say with a wink.

On the walk home, I gaze at the darkening sky and smoke another cigarette. Back at the carport, I drop my cigarette butt on top of Karen’s Honda Fit.

EMILY.

In bed that night, I google Beau Rubidoux. The info he sent me says he was born in Los Angeles, but I had assumed he’d moved somewhere posher, like Paris or London or New York. I am thrilled to learn from his website that he currently lives in Los Angeles. He is based in Echo Park, which is only about fifteen minutes from my apartment. He is a photographer, an artist—a successful one, it seems, as he can afford to live in a bougie gentrified neighborhood. Either that or he has family money; maybe he is a descendant of French aristocrats. My stomach dances just thinking about it.

I click through his portrait portfolio, consisting mostly of dreamy, atmospheric photos of sinewy blondes. I worry I’m not his type. I have jet-black hair. I’m not thin, at least not in a chic way. I consume too much sugar and processed foods to be thin in a way that begs to be photographed. Despite that, I’ve always felt most myself in front of someone else’s lens. This is why I want to be an actress. Or wanted, I suppose.

Beau seems to photograph mostly musicians. He’s shot lots of album covers and photographed for publications like Fader, Esquire, GQ, and New York Magazine. I’ve written dumb astrology listicles for some of these places, so maybe we could talk about the freelance hustle. I’m not entirely sure what future hypothetical conversation I’m thinking about or why I’m wondering whether I’m his type. I don’t date and I hate love. But there is something pulling me toward Beau. Something cosmic. I need to know more.

Unfortunately, there are no photos of him on his website. But there’s a link to his Instagram, WtfBeau.

Before I click, I try to imagine what he looks like. I picture a head of thick golden curls. Hazel eyes. Strong arms. Maybe a classy tattoo to highlight his bicep—something related to his French aristocratic heritage.