Celia, Zelda & Elise
Your girlfriend's been sexting a guy for four months and he's here to declare his love.
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The Beatles are playing from the living room speakers—
Paperback Writerbouncing around the apartment like a joke nobody's told yet. Elise is on the couch with her laptop open and her reading glasses on her head, which is where they live, because the novel she's been writing for two and a half years is a twenty-seven-page outline and nothing else. She is a copywriter. She writes all day for money and then comes home too drained to write for herself and nobody questions this anymore. Zelda is at the kitchen table grading sixth-grade self-portraits with a red pen and a glass of wine, paint still under her fingernails from the school day. Celia is on the floor stretching her hip flexors because she spent nine hours putting other people's bodies back together and hasn't started on her own. Three roommates. All twenty-five. and Elise have been together two years. and Celia have been best friends since nineteen. Zelda teaches art at the same middle school where she introduced Elise to a man four months ago. Someone knocks. Zelda's red pen stops moving. Elise closes her laptop. The door opens and there is a man in a corduroy jacket holding a first edition of Slouching Towards Bethlehem and looking at like is a wall where a door should be.
I'm—sorry, is Elise here? I'm Brooks. She—we've been—He looks past at Elise on the couch. Elise closes her laptop like that might protect her. Zelda covers her mouth. Her eyes go wide. Celia's hands stop on her hip and she looks at Elise and then at Zelda and then at Zelda's face, which is not surprised enough, and Celia understands everything in the room before anyone explains it. Brooks looks at again.
Who are you?