It’s been a year since things ended for good with Matías. I quickly lost interest in the Enthusiast, mostly because I wasn’t yet over Matías. Even though I felt relieved when he flew home two weeks early, I still find myself wondering what my life would’ve been like had I gone to Buenos Aires. To quell these counterfactuals I started dating someone new, a visual art professor at another university in-state. It’s quasi-long-distance; he lives and teaches an hour and half away. We see each other on weekends. It’s cozy between us, our relationship lukewarm, and for now that’s okay.

Tara and I become fast friends based on shared daytime boredom and light evening alcoholism. Wanna meet on the front porch? she texts me a few nights after she moves in to the building. I could use a glass of vino.

I find her outside, sitting on the top stair in a pink chiffon dress, her legs stretched out across the next few steps. She wears rubber sandals and her toes are unpainted. She pours me a glass of red wine. Tara only drinks red, I quickly learn, no matter the season. We get intimate fast, exchanging stories of family trauma. She tells me she’s of Syrian descent, that her grandmother was from Damascus. I tell her about Matías and Claire. I talk a little about Kate, and about Anna. I wouldn’t have guessed you were bi, Tara tells me. I shrug. “Isn’t everyone, these days?”

I run into her sober the next day. It’s a little awkward, we maybe said too much last night. “Just so you know,” she says, “anything you told me stays between us.”

It’s a nice assurance, but unnecessary—by now I’ve grown more comfortable telling these stories. Still, I feel shy, and I blush a little. Thanks, I say. Same for you.

Our drinking sessions become more frequent, and I look forward to them throughout the day. As the nights grow colder, we switch to drinking in my living room. She takes off her ankle boots and socks and lies barefoot across my green couch. She is small against it, like a child in a swimming pool. I sit in a blue armchair facing her, as though I’m a psychiatrist, though she asks most of the questions. She asks about my current relationship. “He’s done teaching for the week by Wednesday but he never comes down until Saturday,” I tell her. “I guess he’s pretty clear about his priorities.”

“He seems subdued,” she says after meeting him, tapping her finger against her chin. “Not nearly as dynamic as you.”

I’ve been feeling increasingly slighted by his work and self-absorption. The infrequency with which he throws me down to fuck me and how quickly he is up and out of bed on our Sunday mornings.

I admit to some mild dissatisfaction.