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.

“Okay,” she says. “You just seemed really happy when you were painting, is all.”

I’m thankful when we finally find a parking spot and can walk into the openness of the park. There’s a couple of Hang-Out groups tossing Frisbees and drinking beers.

“Wow, it’s beautiful here,” Katie says as we sit on the grass. She looks around at the people sunbathing and a group of guys kicking a soccer ball back and forth. “I feel like I’d come here every day if I lived in the city.”

“That’s what I thought, too. I haven’t been here in years.” My phone dings. The three guys playing soccer want to gangbang me.

“Okay, seriously, what’s up with your phone?”

“Firestarter,” I say.