“The doctors said I had a one-in-fifteen chance of living, but look, here I am! Cancer-free for two years. Haven’t lost the weight, but honestly, it’s freeing. At least I won’t end up with another dickhead who’s only with me for my looks. And you know, even in the darkest moments, there’s hope. I’m adjuncting again, making interest payments on the medical bills, and I’ve met a nice guy.” She takes out her phone and shows me a picture. The man’s no winner. He’s round like her and balding. They’re standing in a pumpkin field, the sky behind them vibrant blue, the fields deep brown, both of them looking happy.

“Pablo’s a sweetheart. It’s great to have someone in your corner, you know? We moved into an apartment together, with access to a yard and berry bushes—oh right, almost forgot, I brought you a present.” She digs into her shoulder bag and hands me a small mason jar. “Jam from this summer’s blueberry crop.”

“Wow,” I say, waiting for her to hit me up for money, but the silence just stretches between us. Finally she gives me a smile. This is when the pitch comes.

“I hope you like it,” she says. “It’s really delicious.”

Even though I’ve got loads of profiles to edit, Katie wants to see Prospect Park, so we make our way there in her car. I do edits on my phone as she drives, but she keeps asking me questions about my life, bringing up memories from college, and reminding me of days filled with painting and late nights with jugs of wine and visions of a future better than this one. We used to throw parties with the art and dance majors, and every weekend I’d stalk off through our small college town in search of sunlight, buildings, and blue skies worth painting, figuring this was what life was going to be like, one long stretch of art and community. If I’d known who I’d become by the time I was twenty-nine, living alone in a crumbling NYC efficiency and editing profiles all day, I never would’ve believed it.

“You seriously don’t paint anymore? You were a fantastic artist! I always thought you were just super busy being famous.”

“No,” I say, wishing she’d drop the subject.

“What about your canvases? Have you tried getting a gallery show?”

“Katie, no one’s offering me a gallery show. There’s no way you can live in this city and be an artist. I’m happy I left painting behind, it wasn’t getting me anywhere.”

“So move,” she says, and I realize then that she liked the person I was in college way better than the person I am now.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I love living in the city, and profile editing is a way of using my art degree for something that actually makes money.” Firestarter dings with five potential flames in the area who are interested in having me blow them.