“What’s your angle?” Yaya whispered.

Good things, Magenta said. Peanut butter. Sex gods. Fighting the drunk girl.

“I did you one better than peanuts,” Yaya said. She’d asked for meat lover’s on her half of the pizza, but the scent gave her trepidation.

Her cleft was climbing. In the pizza place restroom, she’d found it at the bottom of her bellybutton. It would cross over before midnight. The more she fed Magenta, the faster the transformation, and yet Yaya couldn’t starve the parasite without starving herself.

“Talking to yourself?” Bryant asked, back from his halls. “Should I be worried?

I hear that’s a red flag on a first date.”

Yaya bristled at the last word, but only sugar fell off her tongue. “More a magenta flag in my case.”

“Actually, magenta’s not a real color.” Bryant chinned his beard toward one wall of paintings, as if they made him an expert on the color spectrum. “Our brains can’t handle green poking its business between pink and purple, so it gives us this other hue.”

I’m not a real color? Magenta asked. Yowzah, loud and clear.

Yaya cocked her head to one wall without looking. “They’re yours?”

“A hobby.” Bryant began pouring wine. “A man must master three crafts in his life. Computers and painting are two, but I’m working on a third.”

Yaya watched the wine glasses and lifted hers the moment he pulled the bottle away. She wasn’t sure what she was doing here, but she wasn’t staying entirely sober. White wine paired with pizza, right? It tasted fine, and she’d watched his hands while he poured.

He began cutting the pizza and doling it onto oblong ceramic plates. “So, were you on the phone?” Was he really back to this?

He can’t see me, Magenta said, and she made a clicking sound, something like laughter.

“You called it right,” Yaya said. “I was talking to myself. Bad habit of living alone.”

“Not for me,” Bryant said. “Would start to worry I’m making my own

Tyler Durden.”

Yaya watched the pizza. The air tasted of too-thin strips of chicken, bacon, and ham.

But Bryant wasn’t done. His eyes widened. “You’ve never seen Fight Club? David Fincher’s final film? I mean, his final good one before he did Fight Club 2 and retired.” He shuddered as if shaking off a traumatic memory.

“I’m not really into movies,” Yaya said. “Except cartoons.”

“But you know what I’m talking about. First rule of Fight Club, all that?”

Yaya shrugged. “I’ve heard the jokes.”

Bryant gave a shocked guffaw. “The original Fight Club isn’t a joke. It’s a philosophy. We have to watch it, right now. Grab the drinks, will you?” He plucked up the plates and tore the pizza away toward the living room. “TV on, volume twenty-five.” The flatscreen flickered to life.

“You don’t want to talk?” Yaya asked.

“It’s only a couple hours.” Bryant turned to the screen. “I mean, we walked and talked all day, and now we’re in my home. A little culture, like the art museum, and I want to share an experience. Is that bad?”