“That’s so cool,” I say, and it is. Alex Prager is one of the most famous contemporary photographers working today. I’ve always loved her work, which is inspired by Hitchcock and Old Hollywood, like Lana Del Rey.

“I like her too,” Beau says. “The job is a real reach, though.” He takes off his lens cap and puts it in his bag. I steal a glimpse of the hem of his boxer briefs peeking out of his pants when he bends over.

“I’ll be thinking positive thoughts,” I say. I hate when people say shit like that, but I don’t know what else to say. My Gemini moon says some really empty things sometimes. Or maybe everybody says trite shit when they don’t know what else to say.

“Thanks,” he says.

“So how do you want me?” I ask, which sounds like something a submissive prostitute would say. But I’m excited about him directing me. I was born to be directed. I’m not good at being natural. I feel more comfortable with artifice, with contortion, like Lana Del Rey. Or maybe it’s my OCD.

“How about you stand closer to the tree,” he says.

I do as he says.

“Now tilt your head up a little.”

I tilt.

“A bit more.”

I tilt more.

“Perfect.”

DAWN.

I wake up with my arms wrapped around Steph’s waist. My mouth is dry and tastes like Red Bull. I don’t remember coming back to my house, but Steph and I have ended a hundred nights this way. I prop myself up on my elbows and scan the room. There are cigarette butts and an empty pizza box on the coffee table.

Steph groans.

I lean over and start petting her hair, like I always do when we are hungover. I take a big whiff and smell the beach.

“I feel like death,” she says. Her skin is dry and tinted gray. I can smell alcohol but can’t tell if it is coming from her pores or mine. “What happened last night?”

“Fuck if I know,” I say. “We need Bloody Marys.”

“Oh my god, Dawn,” Steph says. “How can you think about alcohol right now?”

“Hair of the dog, baby!” I pull one of her curls and release it, causing it to bounce up to her forehead.

“I can’t move,” Steph says, rolling over. She is wearing just a bra and underwear—both lace and baby blue, our favorite color—and I can see her tattoo on her rib cage. We got matching sunflower tattoos when we were eighteen. I love seeing hers and remembering how deep our connection is.

“Oh!” I say. “I slept with this millennial and she used this app! To order Blood Marys!”

Steph laughs. “Yeah,” she says. “We could order Postmates.”

“Look at you, Miss Millennial,” I say in a teasing voice to play off my embarrassment.

“We’ve both slept with enough of them.”