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Randy started by mentioning some design work of Carrie’s that he’d seen.

“Hmm,” said Megan.

He had the magazine he’d seen it in, and he brought it to her, opened to the correct page. He took a seat.

“Oh, wow,” said Megan. She picked up the magazine and dropped it back down on the table.

“I think it’s really cool,” said Randy.

“Sure. It looks like everything else, if that’s what you mean by cool.”

“No, I mean, this is really professional work. It’s cool that it’s done by someone we know.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s just a formula. I don’t feel honored to know a formula. Only one in, I don’t know, ten thousand designers are real artists. I don’t know any designers who’ve been artists since Bauhaus, and they were fighting Nazis with their designs, not . . . imported produce or whatever.”

Randy straightened. “Well, anyway, I was thinking it would be fun to ask Carrie to help me do some web design, and I wanted to ask if you thought her stuff would translate well to a website.”

Megan scratched her face. “Yeah. It’d translate well to a website, if that’s all you’re thinking about. But, you could do this kind of stuff alone,” she said, gesturing at the magazine. “I mean, well, to me, the real hindrance in working with her—or anyone like her—would be the total hypocrisy of it all. Encouraging someone who considers herself to be a forerunning mind of our generation while all she’s doing is, essentially, coloring in the lines would make me, personally, want to fucking kill myself.”

Randy stared at her.

“What?” she said.

“I don’t see what Carrie does as hypocritical.”

“Oh, you used to agree with me. What, now that I’m applying the same idea to your precious darling Carrie, you don’t agree with me about how stupidly pretentious all of these graphic design assholes are, with their fucking letterpressed business cards with their Wordpress addresses on them? Playing around and being condescending about creative recycling and community-based whatever-the-fuck? Help me help you, Randy.”

Megan paused.

“I’m sure they all shampoo their pubes,” she said.

“I’m only talking about this one spread.”

“It’s hollow.”

“You know, that’s kind of what I do for a living.”

“It’s different.”

“Is it? I do web design for a living, and I like it. You’re talking about what I do. And, anyway, you buy organic produce.”

“Yeah, but I don’t kid myself that it’s a part of a movement I’m involved in. I know it’s just groceries. That self-important look in their eyes makes me puke.”

“Ok, so you don’t think I should work with her.”

“Do what you want, but I just think you or any fucking monkey with a reference image and a laptop could do what she does. I mean, all she really did was finish her homework. She’s not some kind of magic fairy genius.”

“Nobody thinks she’s a magic fairy genius,” said Randy.

“You say that now.”

“And why wouldn’t I want to work with someone who finished their homework? Or a magic fairy, for that matter?”

Not having a direct answer to this, Megan began the painful process of shutting the fuck up. The psychological resistance she felt was intense enough to have a physical counterpart, which was a grating feeling in the center of her chest.

“No, you’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. I guess I just had a bad day. I don’t know why I’m ranting.”

She sat on the floor at Randy’s feet and put her head in his lap.

“How’s your butt?” he asked.

“Itchy.”

“How’s your head?”

“Horrible.”

“How was your day?”

“Uuuunnnnghghg. You know how when you drink a lot, the next morning you usually feel depressed? Just, like, chemically, because your body’s in withdrawal?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“Or maybe it’s because your body gives off an excess of serotonin when you’re drunk, so in the morning you have depleted serotonin.”

“Is that how you feel?”

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure it’s just a body thing. There must be some chemical reason why I keep replaying the night.” She had a biting memory. “Over and over. Because I didn’t really do anything that bad. But, you know that feeling where you replay and then edit the conversations you had and then you feel really vulnerable and like everyone hates you, even though you didn’t do anything that out of the ordinary?”

“Yeah, I know that feeling. It’s a sugar crash or something.”

“I feel so stupid about that llama thing at the end of the night.”

“What? I’m sure Carrie doesn’t care, and I thought it was funny. It was funny.”

“She thinks I’m so disgusting.”

“No. She doesn’t think you’re disgusting, Megan. She doesn’t think like that.”

Megan started crying.

“Oh, come on, what? What?”

Megan kept crying, and Randy kept saying “What?”

“I wish you’d say something,” said Randy.

Megan’s throat squeezed shut every time she almost started saying something. She opened her mouth, which he couldn’t see with her head in his lap, then closed it, opened it, then closed it.

“Come on,” he said.

“What do you mean she doesn’t think like that?” Megan shouted. “I think like that. I think she’s disgusting and you know it, you know I think like that, so what do you mean she doesn’t think like that? What, do you think I should just go ahead and try to be more like Carrie? Should I get myself some abstract ambitions and start designing events calendars?”

“Oh, come on.”

Megan wailed.

She’s not always like this, thought Randy. “Why are you being like this?” he asked.

“Because I’m dying!” she said. Then she stopped crying.

“Here. Let me get you a Kleenex,” said Randy, scooting out from under her head.

She sat up straight and mucus ran down her face.

“Here,” said Randy. He handed her a tissue.

Megan felt like an idiot, but she also felt a little better. She was embarrassed and got up from the floor without making eye contact with Randy. She walked to the bathroom while blowing her nose. Randy sat back down.

“I look like a Harlequin Baby,” shouted Megan. Randy started laughing. Megan started laughing. Megan came out of the bathroom and looked at Randy.

“I’m still mad at you,” said Megan.

“Why?”

“Because you love Carrie the turd.”

Randy winced and said, “Come on.”

Later, he brought her juice and Tylenol in bed. He didn’t want to feel like they were arguing anymore.

“How’s Jillian?” he asked. A peace offering.

Megan sighed. “She continues to be a thick strand in the malevolent web of my daily routine.”

FIVE

Jillian and her baby were sitting on the couch having dinner and Jillian felt hollow like she sometimes did. Just a body thing, really. They were watching America’s Funniest Home Videos, and Adam was very involved. Babies and dogs and dogs and cats and dogs and women at barbeques interacted with each other in hilarious combinations, and her son, who had no idea at all about Carla, laughed through his pasta at all the fun the people and animals were having. As she watched Adam watch, she was struck with a vague idea about the promise of life (as represented by the babies on screen) and about not giving up on passions. While she looked at Adam, she understood that he was a baby with passions.