In her response, she managed to both call me ridiculous and a sweetheart, but I let it go. We did the business of stirring, of sipping, of comparing lists of people we knew. Then I let her do most of the talking. Ari spoke like many slender women do—animatedly, with shoulders hunched slightly forward, elbows extended out, creating even more definition in their biceps. She was naturally clever, and had a filthy mouth with a natural instinct for just the right place to use the word fuck for maximum impact.

It took me by greater surprise how little she did to conceal her opportunism. This was actually pretty rare in Washington—not the ambition, of course, but the acknowledgment of it. Usually these types at minimum attempt to cloak their ferocious ladder-climbing with some humility. DC loves a mythmaker. How often have we heard: My grandfather worked in a factory, or My mother drove a school bus, or I was so poor I didn’t have two nickels to rub together? My father didn’t let a speech go by without informing the crowd he was the son of a car salesman. Not this from Ari. “My lips,” she whispered to me, “were once thinner, before the injections.” That was her harshest criticism of herself, for which I had to give her credit.

What could I tell her that she didn’t already know? She knew everything, everyone. She’d been living in England for the past three years, had only just moved back, but there she was, insisting she had the best manicurist, the best suite at the baseball park, the best tarot card reader, if I happened to be so inclined. Did I want to try cryotherapy?

Instead of revealing my ignorance about what in God’s name that was, I changed the subject. “Do you miss London?” Maybe she’d delight me and say yes. Then she’d go back. And though Atlas still wouldn’t love me, at least I wouldn’t be ambushed by visions of them together.

The night before, Ari had added me as a friend on social media and I became one of two thousand followers. I scrolled for hours. Not one picture was dingy, not one suggested a life less than ideal. There were some photos of Atlas, though never when he was looking straight at the camera, and still more of her, by lakes, in forests, holding wine, holding cupcakes, holding other things she certainly did not end up eating.

“Not really,” she said. “I mean—I miss some parts. The feeling of living in a city of little villages. The ability to fly anywhere else in Europe pretty easily. The fact that you could buy bags of potato chips in pubs. The shopping and fashion.”

“I suppose DC doesn’t compare to the London fashion scene,” I said hopefully.

Ari’s lips curled. “No,” she said. “Have you thought of living abroad?”