Aesthetic

It had been almost a year since that first night at The Prospector, and Sam had grown used to accompanying Lydia on her frequent adventures into abandoned bars, pubs, and clubs around the Bay Area. It felt as if he was the chaperone at times, talking her out of decisions that would lead to their imprisonment or grievous bodily harm, while still having a good enough time. This morning Sam had met up with Lydia at around five a.m., and she’d made him agree to bring only his camera and his curiosity. It’s a secret mission, she’d said, and he’d nodded with a groan. The drive had been far but quick, given how little traffic there was. As they drove Sam realised she was taking them to the odd middle-ground between San Francisco and CenCal. Not quite onto the corridor, but an area just on the other side of the barrier.

“This is still the Republic, right?” Sam scratched the back of his neck as Lydia drove.

“Of course,” she chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Did we go through a checkpoint?”

“But we’re not going to go through one, right?”

“Lul,” Lydia deadpanned.

She cut the wheel and headed off-road just as they’d passed a sign warning them of private property. Sam’s nerves were already shot, but he’d used up all of his moaning for this hour, so he kept quiet and let her get a bit further on. His fingernails left white crescents in the hard plastic of the armrest.

“Come on,” she asserted. They’d parked behind a huge metal container after driving across the dirt and gravel for ten minutes. Sam was certain they’d be arrested, or killed by unionist mines. It was a calming thought. He quietly obeyed, hands in pockets, and followed Lydia as she began to trundle down into a sort of gravel pit. She walked with such determination, even as she looked like an archetypal character from a quick-start drama stream – black beanie, grey canvas jumpsuit, Army green messenger bag, and boots. She even had the ridiculous bolt-cutters, which didn’t quite fit into the bag and therefore peeked out one side.

After another twenty to thirty minutes of trundling Sam had gotten completely turned around, and he was fairly certain they would never find their way back. Lydia seemed to know exactly where they were going, never for a moment stopping to look around or get her bearings. And then they reached the fence. Sam threw his hands on his hips and leaned back to take in the scale of it: it had to be at least fifteen feet high, chain link, with barbed wire at the top to discourage anyone foolish enough to think they’d be able to climb fifteen feet of chain link.

“Did we take a wrong turn?” Sam finally spoke, his first words in about forty-five minutes.

“Hope not, “ Lydia said, the bolt-cutters already in her hand. “I don’t want to trash the wrong fence.” Before Sam could even consider a response, she’d made the first snip.

Sam’s anxiety had come spilling over the top, and Lydia spent the next fifteen minutes of their walk attempting to calm him. Or as he saw it, attempting to gaslight him.

“It’s urban exploring,” she said. “They really don’t mind. They have bigger problems.”

“Which is it? They don’t mind, or they have bigger problems?”

“They don’t even notice!” She turned briefly and flashed her devilish grin. The pit in Sam’s stomach grew. But his anxiety gave way to a milder confusion as they emerged onto a city street.

“What…” He looked around in a daze. Abandoned single-story houses, mostly boarded up, on both sides of a street that appeared frozen in time. No cars, dead lawns, some bits of rubbish strewn about, but mostly just empty. Desolate and unused, as if the rapture had finally come, but it had been isolated to whatever block they were on. Were the rest of them sinners?

“Wild, right?” Lydia grinned.

“What is this?”

“The Foster City exclusion zone.”

Sam nodded, though he had no idea what that was. The name Foster City sounded familiar. He knew it had been a city, but that could just be the clue of ‘city’ being in the name.

“Through here,” she said as she pulled back a bit of fence that was already cut. They’d reached the end of the street and come to an intersection. It was a business district, or what once was. It followed a similar pattern of being boarded up and discarded, though this one had more obvious signs of what might have been. It was heavily graffitied in anti-Republic slogans, smashed glass littered the street, and there were obvious signs: bullet holes, burn marks, shell casings in the gutters, to say nothing of the burned out husks of cars all along both sides.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam finally said. He nearly bumped straight into Lydia, who had also stopped to have a look.

“Yeah,” she said under her breath. “Let’s skip it. In here.” They were around the back of a massive building, ornate, made to look old-world but clearly built within the last thirty years. Lydia jammed a pry bar into the frame of a steel door with a missing handle, and popped it open.

A dismal concrete passage waited behind the door, and Lydia powered down it with what Sam hoped was an earned confidence. He tucked in behind her and followed close, unable to stop himself being visibly frightened at every turn. Every surface was filthy and coated in cobwebs. The skittering and crawling of bugs and mice echoed down the length of it. A two-by-four plank of wood leaned against a wall just ahead of them, and a wrong step from Sam sent it banging into the ground. He jumped and flung his arms around Lydia’s waist. She cackled.

“Oh, mijo. You’re safe.” She put her hands over his and gave them a squeeze. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you, chulo. Got it?”

“You promise?” Sam asked, his tone genuine.

“I promise,” Lydia whispered.

They appeared to reach the end of the hallway. Another steel door, this time with a window in it, and an EXIT sign hanging on the wall just above it. Sam leaned around Lydia and peeked through the window. It appeared to be a baroque lobby, high-ceilinged, and almost beyond repair. Perhaps an old hotel, Sam thought, or some sort of office building.

“You can tell it was beautiful,” he said.

“It was,” she sighed. “But we’re this way. Come on.” She pressed her hand against the wall to their left, and it pushed inward, then slid effortlessly to one side. Before it disappeared into its hidden frame, Sam noted it had the outline of what looked like a martini glass punched into the metal. It was barely discernible.

The transition was sudden, like Sam had lost time. The walls had changed from drab concrete to a gorgeous dark wood, and a lavish spiral staircase went downward. The hint of sunlight from the corridor barely made it past the first few steps. Lydia retrieved a torch from her bag. She extended a hand backwards and Sam took it. He allowed himself to be led down the stairs slowly, one step at a time, the torch light illuminating the way until they arrived at the bottom.

The air was stale, the darkness near-impenetrable. But when Lydia shined her torch around, Sam could instantly tell this was an old pub. Pubs have a particular look, one that few publicans were brave enough to deviate from throughout the history of the format. A lot of wood, a lot of brass, a bar somewhere you can easily spot, a variety of tap handles, some shelves full of colourful spirit bottles, and depending on the vibe they’ve attempted to cultivate, some hilarious signs.

“Oh my god,” Sam exclaimed. It was perfectly preserved. “What is this place?”

“This,” Lydia started dramatically, “is The Counting Room. It’s an old speakeasy!”

“What?” Sam was stunned. Lydia swept into the room and turned to face him. She popped the torch on the floor and aimed it to the ceiling. The light bounced down and illuminated the room: the walls, floor, and the bar all bathed in a warm orange. Lydia spread her arms wide with a grin, the demeanour of an estate agent about to launch into the most deceptive sales pitch you’ve ever heard.

“It’s from the 1920s?” Sam asked.

“What? Sam, no, this building is… no, chulo, it’s a hidden bar. This was built as a bank and offices, but after a decade it got scarfed by vencap to turn into luxury apartments. As part of the development they installed this secret bar, like a perk for the rich assholes who lived here. And then, well. You know. That happened.”

“What?” Sam squinted.

“The summer of `35?”

“Summer of…”

Lydia sighed. “The bloody bargain? Ninth June?” She paused and waited, then threw her hands up in aggravation. “The extremely fucking violent partitioning of California?”

Sam shook his head and stared at his shoes. Living in Los Angeles, they really hadn’t heard much about what was going on up north. And if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to follow the news during the separation. Maybe his parents did, but he turned twenty-one that summer. So, perhaps embarrassingly, he’d spent it drunk rather than following domestic politics.

“Sure, obviously.” Sam scratched the back of his neck. It would be raw before the end of the day. “Sorry, I’m just blown away by this bar. It’s fantastic!”

Lydia blew some stray hairs out of her face, so Sam could get a better look at her rolled eyes. “I thought you’d want to take pictures of this place. Don’t know if anyone has yet. And it’ll get harder to get to now that Magenta are finally going to do something with it.”

“Magenta?”

“Yeah, they bought the whole town from the Republic government. Or were given it, or something. They’ve been doing a lot here. Nobody’s sure what. They obviously aren’t required to file permits.”

Sam shook his head. “Fucking Magenta.”

Lydia popped her bag up onto the bar, then jumped up herself and sat on the edge. “This okay, Sam? Not going to traumatise you, my being on the bar?”

“This bar could survive a nuclear blast, I’m sure.” He opened the bag and pulled out his camera, which looked a bit worse for wear. Apparently the prototype housing wasn’t designed to stand up to the beating he’d been giving it.

“Get to it, shut-ter bug-ger.” Lydia strained to make the sounds work in her accent. She gave him a wink in her triumph.

“Shutter bugger?”

“Shutter bugger! It’s what they called photographers a long time ago.”

“How do you know that?”

“I asked Aida.”

Sam laughed. “I think Aida was making it up.”

“Probably. But I like it. It’s cute. I like the sound of it, Sam.” She reached out and nearly tipped over the edge of the bar in her effort to grab the back of Sam’s shirt. Her fingers managed to snatch a tiny corner of it and she tugged to pull him back.

“Hmm?” He turned to face her and she threw her legs out to trap him in, her feet locked together at his back. “Hey!” He grabbed the camera with both hands as she closed her legs around him and yanked him forward, squeezing his sides with her thighs and bringing the two of them face to face.

“Hi,” Lydia said through an animated smile, her eyes wide.

“Hi, Lydia.” He felt his face go flush, and he was quick to avoid her gaze.

“Look at me, Sam.” She scooted forward a bit more, right to the edge of the bar, and threw her arms over Sam’s shoulders to steady herself. “You’re so shy.”

“You’re so forward.”

“I’m a modern lady, Samir Patel. It’s 2045.”

“You are. It is.”

“Do you like where I brought you?”

“I do, I’m excited.”

“I mean the bar, Sam. Not between my thighs.”

Sam shook his head and leaned away with a scoff. “I meant the bar!”

“Oh, Sam.” She flicked his cheek, then tapped the top of the camera. “Take my picture. Only then will I release you.”

He held up the camera and looked at Lydia through the viewfinder. Her arms extended out past each side of the frame as she held his shoulders. Her head leaned back at a slight angle, a bit of shine on her cheeks. Her lips parted, a sultry smile, radiant blue eyes. All wreathed in golden light from her torch on the ground reflecting off the brass bar. Through a lens he could see her in a way he couldn’t with his own eyes. A truer vision of her, free from his hangups and judgements, from the world itself. His breath caught in a flutter. He pushed the button. The camera vibrated, and he felt the rush of endorphins. He had managed to capture a perfect moment.

“Did you get it?” He heard her voice amidst the tingles in his brain, and felt a smile on his face. “Hey, are you okay?” Her thumb brushed his cheek and he realised he had teared up.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, sorry.” He squirmed, still locked in place. “Can you…?”

“Yeah, sure.” She trailed off, her voice thick with confusion, and let her legs drop. Sam quickly pulled away.

“I’m just going to float around and get a bunch of shots, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, Sam, it’s fine. Are you sure…”

“Yeah, just need to…” He rubbed his eyes, and felt another few tears drop down. He was able to wipe them away quickly. “There, it’s fine.”

Sam had set to work quietly snapping photonically pure photos of the abandoned speakeasy. Close-ups of the taps, complete with at least a couple beers that no longer existed. Wide-angles of the whole room from above, which involved climbing up a precarious stairwell that Sam figured was for show. Lydia was always nearby, but seemed to be avoiding him, or charitably, trying to give him a subject in the photos. He’d snap a few without her, mostly close-ups of architecture. But odds were good that if he had the chance, he’d find a way to frame her in. It gives a nice sense of scale, he’d decided.

“How long is this stream running for,” she shouted. It had probably been an hour at this point. “Are you good? A girl can only pace leaving herself voice notes for so long, you know.”

Sam nodded, and began climbing down from his perch atop the bar, where he’d been experimenting with some Dutch angles. “Sorry.”

“No apologies, I did bring you here. I knew what I was getting myself into.” She chuckled. “I may have forgotten there wouldn’t be any service down here.”

“Right.”

“Just going to see if there’s a toilet, and if it’s still somehow functioning. Bee arr bee.” Lydia had disappeared into the other room just as Sam made it to the far end of the bar. He opened the bag and popped his camera inside. There’s so much here, he thought. What was she preparing for? Just any possible outcome? Multiple torches, the bolt cutters, some snacks… and… what was this? There were some printed papers at the bottom. Odd, he thought. Not something you see often. He contemplated, if only for a moment, allowing Lydia her privacy. But with a blink he had them out of the bag and in his hand. It was a yellowed paper, thin enough that you could see the back through the front, the words printed in a streaky black-and-white. The entire thing seemed to be crooked, like the paper had gone in at an odd angle. He ran his finger across the words at the top: The Analog Gazette.

“Don’t think that belongs to you.” Samir froze, the paper crinkling in his fist. It was a man’s voice, one that sounded deep and annoyed. “Where’s Lydia?”

“Oye, wey, are you serious,” Lydia shouted as she raced back into the room. “Hector, leave him alone.” She snatched the page out of Sam’s hand before he had the chance to read any further. “¡Chingada, no seas metiche, wey!”

“Sorry!” He took a large step back, leaving Lydia and Hector beside each other. “I just saw it when I was putting my camera away. I didn’t realise it was private.”

“It’s in my bag, Sam.”

“I thought we were sharing the bag.”

Lydia groaned, and it was by far her loudest of the day. “Chulo, I cannot. And you, Hector, what the hell? What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t answering your phone. What are you doing here with…” He gestured to Samir. “Agachón.”

“Urban exploring.” Lydia rolled her eyes and gave Hector a light shove. “Maybe you could do some yourself? Away from here?”

“Should he be here?” Hector continued to glare at Sam, who began to melt like a candle.

“Won’t happen again,” Sam croaked. “No more sharing bags. I’ll bring a bag next time.”

“Hector.” Lydia stepped inches from his face. “Lárgate, wey. We’ll talk tonight.”

“Fine.”

Sam tried to ask about Hector, how they knew each other, and why he’d also turned up in The Counting Room, but Lydia would only roll her eyes or shush him. Chulo, relax. She instead tried to “lift the vibe”, as she put it, by showing Sam the rest of the abandoned apartment building. Most of the rooms looked identical, which was a different sort of depressing, but it was still interesting to see what had been left behind. Sam had fixated on a photo of an absolutely enormous family, though he didn’t take it. Lydia boosted a crystal brandy snifter that would be a “bigger crime to leave behind”, and what appeared to be someone’s vintage mobile telephone collection.

“What do you need with those?” Sam looked on in amusement as she piled the ancient flip phones into her bag, at least four of them.

“These are Motorola RAZRs! Original. They’re platinum. If they work.”

Sam shook his head and shrugged as Lydia dumped and tossed drawers before she finally found the chargers.

“¡A huevo!” She said with a Cheshire grin. “I’m due an upgrade.” She tossed the chargers in her bag, then produced a chunkier looking version of the same device. Seeing it tickled something long-dormant in Sam’s brain. It had a faded sticker wrapped around it with the name of some old skate shoe company, and a few gleaming plastic studs glued at random along the back.

“That’s hilarious,” Sam said. “Is that an… iPhone?”

Lydia’s grin could hardly get wider. “Sam, no. When were you born?”

“I don’t know if I’m…”

“Sam!”

“2014.”

“Novio, this phone was ten years old when you were born. Respect your elders.”

“That’s not a huge gap. But what do you use it for? Just a good luck charm?”

“Qué oso,” she whispered. “It works.”

After a full day of photography and archeology, Lydia had led them back through the ruined remains of the town. The sun had started to disappear behind the horizon as they walked up the side of a hill.

“Low power mode,” she muttered as she dropped to the ground and stretched out. “Join me? Best to wait until late to head back, anyway.”

Sam and Lydia stared straight up, their arms tucked behind their heads, their backs against the cool grass. The hill was artificial, Lydia had explained, made of the immense amount of dirt excavated by Magenta during the construction of a nearby underground complex. But that couldn’t stop you from having a real evening atop it.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Lydia smiled and glanced over at Sam, her face close, but cloaked in darkness. In the sky above them, dozens of far away lights danced and twinkled in a dazzling, if surprising, display.

“I didn’t realise you could even see the stars out here,” Sam said.

“It’s not stars,” Lydia said with a twinkle of her own. “It’s SkyTie.”

“Sky tie?”

“Hundreds of tiny satellites in low Earth orbit. Maybe thousands.” Lydia held a closed hand up in front of Sam’s face, then slowly opened it. The familiar blue flicker of her Ring lit both of their faces, millions of light rays shooting out of an imperceptible hole somewhere on its surface, forming into a small interface on her palm. “So that we can do this.”

“Ah… well, I just…”

“It’s okay to not know things, Sam.” She closed her hand just as Sam turned to her. The blue glow vanished from her face. He squeezed his eyes a few times to adjust.

“Thanks.”

“Besides,” she said as she glanced over to him, “you’re playing at this old soul angle.” In the monochrome of night she somehow managed to look even younger.

“Hey. I’m my own age. You’re the one trying for the whole wisdom beyond your years thing.”

“Can I ask you something, Samir?”

“Full name, must be serious. Go ahead.”

She grinned and nudged him with her elbow. “Mi cielo, the way Sebastian tells it you’re a digi-addict. Though I never see you chat with any…”

“…well, I have you to talk to when you’re around… I talk to my other friends later.”

“Let’s say that it’s true, you have a lot of digis, and I assume you have a dop?”

“I do…” Sam’s eyes briefly went wide. He hadn’t checked in on his dop in ages. “Where are you going with this?”

“You front like you hate Magenta,” she said. “But you sure do use a lot of their products.”

Sam shot air through his nose at the indignation. “You’ve got a Ring, too.”

“Chingada, we’ve all got Rings, Sam, how the fuck else would we live? I couldn’t even start my car without my Ring.” She dragged her fingernails down his arm gently.

“Are you saying I’m not allowed to dislike Magenta if I have a dop?” There was a sharpness to Sam’s words. He propped himself up on his elbows.

“Oye, wey,” Lydia sat up as well, and rolled on her side to face him. “I’m just asking whether you actually dislike them, or if you’re pretending just to impress me.” She flaunted her smile. “It’s okay if you are, it’s cute.”

He wondered just how much of that chequered past he wanted to share with Lydia right now, on the fake hill, under the fake stars. “It’s… complicated.”

“Is it?”

“Parts of it aren’t, like today. That beautiful underground bar, that whole apartment building, that whole town, just empty and abandoned. Instead of doing something with it, the city council just gives it to Magenta, and they do nothing with it. It’s such a waste. They’re so big, they have no idea what they even do anymore. Do they even know they own it? They just don’t care.”

“Chulo,” she whispered. “Gran pasión.” She pushed up off the grass and put one leg over Sam, who watched it happen with a mild panic. “It’s okay, Sam. I care, a lot of us care.” She straddled him, her hands at his sides to prop herself up.

“Oh.” His hands came to rest on her hips, which were still hidden inside her jumpsuit. “Hi.”

"SkyTie is the net we're all caught in, chulo. They control what we see, who we talk to, what we say, what we remember. They sold your generation the luxury of it being optional. Mine got Magenta Accounts at birth. Everyone can tell you Rebecca Prue's name. Can they name the Mayor? The governor?”

"I don't even know who the Mayor is."

“Remember that night at The Prospector last year? Even if we didn't take a photo, Aida can gen it for me perfectly. But she can also change it. Take you out, replace you, replace me. She could pretend the club doesn’t exist at all, or say we were never there. How fucked is that?"

"It's fucked, Lyds." His fingers fidgeted with the zipper of her suit. He contemplated pulling it down.

She put her fingers on his and pulled the zip for him, slowly revealing the taut white tanktop underneath. “We believe in the right to say no to these people, to live without them. Me, Hector, many others too. Others that are afraid to talk about it because for some reason it's controversial to not want a Magenta Ring, or to make a photo that stays the same forever."

"Or a song." She pulled her arms out and the top of the jumpsuit fell limp behind her. He could feel her shiver in the pre-dawn air, and as his hands slid across her bare midriff he could feel the goosebumps.

"Or a song, yes, chulo. You understand, I know you do. That camera of yours... the way you're always trying to capture something real instead of just having Aida gen it for you. That's you, saying no. That's what I love about you."

“You…”

“Wait, I want you to see this.” She leaned down and fished something from her bag, then thrust it straight into his face. After his eyes adjusted he could just about make it out in the darkness: it was the paper from earlier. “It’s a newsletter,” she said. “For people like us.”

He scanned it, again reading the title, The Analog Gazette. What he hadn’t seen was the smaller print: the newsletter was dominated by a section called Analog Voices.

“It’s stories!” Lydia was elated. “The Analog Gazette, dispatches from under the net. It’s real people all over the place, about how we’re all coping in Magenta’s world. And sometimes, what people are doing to fight back.”

“Fight back?” He squinted and moved his face back and forth, but it was too dark to make out anything smaller than the title. “Lyds, I can’t see.”

“Un momento.” His hands fell unceremoniously as she climbed down off of him, plopping straight onto ground next to him. With her shoulder slipped behind his, she pulled him close and pressed herself against his back, then brought the paper in front of them. “Hold?” Sam nodded and took it. Lydia opened her palm and her Ring dutifully glowed, bathing both the paper and their faces in a calming blue light.

A familiar dread settled over Sam as the photo came into view.

“Oh, it’s this one!” Lydia squealed, her cheek pressed against Sam’s. “I love the writing in this one.” She cleared her throat, and spoke in a husky whisper, affecting a ridiculous British accent directly into Sam’s ear. “From A. N., in Moseley. Live music has returned to the Midlands, courtesy of this Bri’ish music titan turned fugitive. The leatha-clad for-mah label exec, on the run from both Ma-gen-tuh and the Guv-ment, was spotted looking stunnin’ as evah, playin’ a set of original music on her antique guitah in West Brom.”

Sam closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing.

Lydia let out a giggle. “So random, right? She goes on to write a whole review of this music set. It’s so timelined.”

Sam kept staring, Lydia’s cheek still pressed against his. On the paper above the story was a grainy, black-and-white photo that was unmistakably of his former boss, Gemma Thomson.

“No? No good?” She pulled him tight against her and scooted over even more, practically sat on his lap. “You didn’t laugh at my British accent.”

“Oh,” Sam caught his breath. “It was very good. Funny.”

“What’s wrong?

He stared at the facsimile of Gemma on the page in front of him. Thoughts roared in protest from a cage at the back of his mind. The last few times they’d seen each other had been awful. The lowest he’d seen her, the lowest he’d seen anyone. Ravaged by alcohol. Throwing herself at him backstage. Absolutely demolishing those poor kids from Killslop. Taking his hand-made mix CD with an eye-roll and a sigh. Thinking of her before now, he wanted to be back with her. But in seeing her now, in pixelated monochrome, all he wanted was to be angry with her.

“Talk to me, Samir.” Lydia squeezed his cheeks and gave his face a bit of a shake.

“Sure…” He kept staring at the photo. When was it taken? There didn’t seem to be a date. How was it taken? Sam didn’t even know how this would’ve gotten from the UK to here. Even if you did have an international privilege, Aida would just hmm and hum and politely explain why it wasn’t appropriate to send this message. Against all odds it had gotten here, and there it was. There she was–alive, running and playing music. Live music. His mind was a scrambled mess. A thousand texts he’d wanted to send, a thousand photos he’d wanted to show, a thousand silences he’d wanted to share, all with this person he assumed was dead. Sam closed his eyes and let out a long, relaxed sigh. He found focus through the image of her on stage at Maelzel’s, strapped with the guitar from the photo, singing a sarcastic cover of some Sabrina Carpenter song. Or maybe something original, whatever she’d like. It wouldn’t have to end in pain, after all. Excise the final years of their relationship, keep the rest, start anew.

“Sam, hello, stop scrolling and lock in.” Lydia lowered his hand and took the paper from him. “I know.” He blinked and stared as she climbed atop him. “I know you have a complicated relationship.” Her face was inches from his. He dry swallowed as the delicate thoughts of Gemma shattered and crumbled away.

“Lydia…” This had been off-limits since, well, the first night. A year of occasional teasing, playful banter, awkward escapes. But he never said no, instead preferring to demure. What did she mean, a complicated relationship?

“I’ve known for a while. I didn’t know how to bring it up. I hoped you’d bring it up.”

“You know?” The mystery was almost enough to arrest his thoughts away from how Lydia continued to straddle him, and how close she still was. He pictured her pinning him to the ground, then shook his head to rid himself of the image.

“I know.” Lydia nodded. “About your wife.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, just as all the colour drained from his face. “Virginia.”

“I know you do. What? What do you mean?” In his mind he gave a self-assured accounting of himself, with an emphasis on why this was not her concern, because he and Lydia were just friends, and he and Virginia were separated anyway. But to Lydia, and to anyone who might’ve been in earshot, it sounded like a bit of air escaping his nose.

“Don’t worry, chulo. I mean I understand why you hate Magenta,” she said with a smile, and gave his nose a boop. “It’s because Virginia works there.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“Not here. Come on, let’s go.”