“Anything good?” I don’t know why I am extending the conversation. Tara looks pretty in a baby-blue dress that flatters her figure. Her hair is shiny. Dimples form on her cheeks when she smiles. I can’t deny that I miss her.

“It’s a foreign film,” Tara says.

Tara always wanted to see foreign films when we were dating, but I don’t like to read subtitles. I stopped going with her and she would go alone.

Jealousy kicks me in the gut. Blair, this new girl who looks like a baby, is going to see some snooty French movie with Tara. I wonder if Tara is going to take her to the French Riviera. I squeeze my drink, and whipped cream bubbles up over the top.

“Sounds fun,” I manage.

“Take care,” Tara says.

And then they are gone.

EMILY.

I close out at 3:15 P.M., after finishing my Refinery29 article and reading eleven birth charts, totaling multiple months of rent. I decide to reward myself by buying a vape pen on the way to the Mirror Box. I stop at my favorite weed store, buy a disposable pen, and plan to let Cinnamon smoke as much as she wants.

When I get to the Mirror Box, the bouncer says he missed me. I say I missed him too. We don’t use each other’s names because we don’t know each other’s names. But it feels good to be missed.

Cinnamon is sitting at the bar in her typical babydoll garb, sipping clear liquid from a glass. I remember how easily she’d taken back those shots the previous night. Rich girls seem to have extremely high tolerances. I know this mostly from Hazel and Camilla, who are always drinking, although I haven’t been listening to Precious Starlets. They were my social life by proxy, my parasocial friends, and since I’ve been interacting with people in the flesh, I don’t need them anymore.

“Hey, girl,” Cinnamon says when she sees me. She is sitting next to my favorite dancer, Onyx, who has arresting blue eyes like mine. I know from stalking her on Instagram that she is a Gemini and has a black cat named Binx. She is wearing a Nirvana T-shirt as a dress and fishnet stockings. I wish Cinnamon dressed more like this, but of course that is not my business.

“This is Onyx,” Cinnamon says.

“I know,” I say. “I’m a fan.”

“Oh my god, what the fuck is your name again?” Cinnamon asks me. “The girls call you Ice. Because of your eyes.”

“Ice works,” I say.

“I like the fit.” Onyx pets the arm of my tracksuit. “So soft.”

Cinnamon starts petting me too, and I remember why I come here all the time. I read online that regular human touch is a vital element of physical health.

I hand Cinnamon my new vape pen. “I want you to christen it,” I say.