“I hear that,” says Beau. He seems a bit more relaxed. Maybe I just need to talk more. He’s so effortlessly beautiful, he probably isn’t used to having to carry a conversation. I’m not used to it either. But I am an actress. I can pretend to be chatty. Not too chatty, of course. But just enough.

“You had a long night too?” I ask. I just need to ask him some questions about himself. Get him loose.

He types something on his computer, then looks up. “Always,” he says with a pained grin. I remember that he dealt coke. Maybe he is trying to change his lifestyle. I need to change the subject to something more relaxing.

A hot waiter arrives, and Beau orders a black coffee, just like me.

“I’m glad you didn’t order oat milk,” I say.

Beau laughs. “You take your coffee black too?”

“Exclusively,” I say. “Why dilute perfection?”

He nods, then seems a little uncomfortable again. I am enticed by how difficult it is for him to open up. He will get close to seeming friendly, then shut down. To me, it’s like a drug.

I hope he feels the same way about me.

I go back to my laptop and decide to put the ball in his court for a bit. I scan my Gmail absentmindedly.

“Hey,” he says suddenly. “What’s your screenplay about?”

“Oh.” I say the first thing that comes to mind. “It’s about an astrologer who doesn’t believe in astrology.”

Beau laughs. “That’s brilliant.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Astrology is so trendy right now; it’s everywhere.”

I’m glad he thinks it’s trendy, even though my livelihood embarrasses me. I’m always worried the trend is over. All trends come to an end. When I was in elementary school everyone was obsessed with these things called pogs, which were just garishly decorated pieces of cardboard. We went nuts for them, and they were truly just cardboard. And then one day, poof, no one cared about them at all. It was like they never existed. I imagine a landfill somewhere filled with pogs. One day my Instagram account will exist in a landfill in cyberspace.

“I got my chart read recently by the girl who runs one of those meme accounts, I think it was Exalted,” he continues. “I don’t even remember ordering it. I guess I was pretty drunk at the time.”

“Oh?” I’m ashamed but also turned on. Most erotic feelings are accompanied by embarrassment. “Did the reading resonate?”

“Not really, honestly,” he says.

My feelings are a little hurt.

“She made it sound like I was some kind of gift from God. And I’m a loser, honestly.” He laughs. “I double-checked to make sure I gave her the right birth time.”