“This is Emily Forrest,” Thomas says to Beau. I am thrilled that he is using my full name, which is slightly more interesting than Emily alone. “She’s a fan of your photography.”

I am normally pretty good at reading facial expressions, but Beau’s is inscrutable. The fact that I can’t read him turns me on. I love that Beau isn’t obvious and predictable like every other fucking person in this world. I want to talk to him and find out what he is thinking—”pick his brain,” as my cousin Rachel used to say when she’d talk to a “colleague” on four margaritas. Beau is even prettier up close: thick eyelashes like paintbrushes, stabbing cheekbones, and a silky mop of nearly black hair like … well, not unlike my own.

“Cool,” said Beau, “nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I said. I sharpen my eyes at him, drawing attention to my best feature. I can’t tell whether I look pretty or if I’m glaring in a creepy way.

Beau starts introducing us to the vacant girls, and I am so busy trying not to glare I completely miss their names.

“We’re heading out,” Beau says. “But it was good to see you, bud.”

I have so many mixed feelings. Beau is leaving. But also, he is a coke dealer who calls Thomas “bud.” And he looked into my eyes.

Beau walks away in slow motion.

“I have to go,” I say as soon as Beau leaves.

“You don’t want to stay over?” Thomas asks.

“No,” I say.

I walk straight to the Mirror Box. On the way I listen to the Precious Starlets talk about how they are sick of elite media girls arguing about “sex work.” I wish I had the luxury to see sex work as a philosophical debate. I sucked off Thomas because I had no choice. I don’t have a trust fund. I am annoyed. Maybe I am over these girls, just like I’m eventually over all my friends.

Cinnamon is the first person I see in the bar. I am starting to think she doesn’t even work here; she is just a thirsty patron, like me. We have the same birth chart, after all.

“Do you still want your chart read?” I ask. I may as well get something out of her. Also, it will be easy because we have the same chart.

She pulls out her stack of cash. “I need some direction,” she says.

Everyone needs direction, and that’s how I pay the bills.

“So you have a Scorpio stellium,” I tell her. Portishead comes on, and I’m soothed by the sounds of the ‘90s, a superior time, when there were no algorithms and Winona was queen. “This is important.”

Cinnamon’s doll eyes widen. I remember clinking champagne glasses with my father and looking into Beau’s eyes. Tonight has been decent. I am going to hype her up.