There were only two pieces of furniture in the living room, a black leather sofa with wooden legs and a gray crocheted ottoman that looked like it had been purchased from a dorm furniture bin at Target. No television. The kitchen—cellblock-gray granite countertops, dark wooden cabinets. A single wineglass on the counter, next to a hardback copy of Sapiens. A three-quarters-full bottle by the sink, uncorked. Not a stain anywhere. I recalled Anjali Auntie’s kitchen—the imperfection of the white grouting always hued a little bit orange from turmeric; the general scent of pungent asafetida and browned onions lingering. This was a sterile, somehow anonymous life, as though Anita wanted to erase herself.

“I’ve been meaning to move,” she said apologetically, emerging from what I presumed to be a bathroom, wearing a black sleeveless tank top and, noticeably, no bra. Her nipples lifted through the shirt, and the room seemed incandescent. Below, maroon athletic shorts displayed her quads, taut from years of running and tennis. It was so little clothing as to be nearing none at all. “I keep selling my stuff, and then getting stuck on the next step. Anyway, that’s why it’s so empty. I can’t justify staying on here alone much longer.” She bit her lip. “We lived together. Here. But until I figure out where my next job-job is, I don’t know where to look, or what my budget should be, and it’s all one big crazy-making loop, so I end up back in Palo Alto.” She looked around the living room. “I know, it has no personality.”

“If furniture reflects our personalities, I’m not sure what it says that all my roommate and I have in our common area is a futon and a bong. And these alpaca rugs he brought back from an ayahuasca retreat in Peru.”

“That says something.” She grinned. “Speaking of weed. Weed?”

“You’re offering? Sure.”

She nodded, gestured to the couch. I sat. The leather was cold on my back. Anita went to fiddle in the kitchen, returning with the bougiest piece I’d ever seen, foldable, with a balsa-wood-type finish. She offered me the first hit.

“So, what kind of job do you want?” I asked.

“You and my mother and everyone else wants to know.”

“Sorry.”

She shrugged. “It was so easy to slide into the tech world from Stanford. I did a training program at a good company right out of school, and then Galadriel happened, and you don’t ask questions when Galadriel wants you. Which means you miss that they believe so intensely in this crazy science-fiction future—we’re all going to live in space and live a thousand years and be married to software, or whatever—they believe in it so strongly that nothing that happens between now and then really matters. Screw privacy, harassment, whatever. You didn’t happen to see our founder address the Republican National Convention, did you?”