The Pacific Northwest is a singular pocket of Americana. Its major cities sit on the water, while smaller neighborhoods sprawl along the periphery, shaped by their own economies.
Like most West‑Coast cities, they live under the shadow of imminent doom—oceanic fault lines that could erupt at any moment. Pompeii's shadow hangs as heavy as the clouds that dominate most of the year. Memento mori. How does that weigh on mind and soul?
It was storming when she reached the station, but rain was typical, so there was no reason to refuse a call.
She took a seat in the last car, pulled her legs up into the oversized sweater, hugged her knees close, and rested her head against the window. It always rained this time of year; intensity varied, fluctuating between downpour and drizzle throughout the week, but a single gloomy day bled into the next. A person could go mad, and many did.
She could only move as fast as the train, but her phone kept buzzing. They had told her not to shower, but she ignored the warning. If she didn't shower, others might mistake her for homeless—a stereotype that hinges on odor. She knew that the perception of filth was not always accurate, but perception was everything in her profession. So although she showered, she applied unscented antiperspirant powder and skipped the usual perfumes and deodorant. The passive exertion of travel would be enough to simulate the patina of filth they demanded—faint enough to go unnoticed unless intimate, face pressed close enough to know the scent of her hair at the nape of her neck.
Should she get a coffee?
Messages continued to arrive, but she left the device untouched. It thrummed every five minutes or so, always questioning:
Are you close?
Did something happen?
Have you heard from Nadine?
Nadine was another girl, but the two weren't close. Some nights they saw each other after receiving the same call on their black phones and made themselves up for whatever the event dictated. Tonight wasn't so significant, as her jeans and sweater attested—merely an appearance. Sometimes they wanted to show others they could do things ordinary people could not, like summoning women with a phone call.
When the train stopped in the city, she shuffled off to the bus stop for the second leg of the journey. The bus arrived promptly; the schedules usually aligned, ensuring one vehicle was always ready when the other prepared to depart. A city is a system of intentional interactions—it is a body, and she was being ferried along an artery to perform her function.
When the phone rang she answered before it could do so a second time. A crackle through the speaker. "Hey."
They didn't speak in full sentences. Music and low chatter filled the room while the speaker performed elsewhere.
"Change of plans."
She was to go to a different address.
"There's a guy. We'll send a picture."
Silence followed.
The new address required a different route. She pulled the line and stepped off the moment the bus halted.
A busy stretch of street unfolded before her: tents tucked beneath tarps, feet protruding through canvas flaps as the occupants waited out the rain. She favored the sidewalk's far side, avoiding water splashed by cars that cared only about their own routes.
The second bus dropped her at a theater courtyard, and the picture arrived the instant she stepped beneath the shelter. It was a screenshot from a dating app. The man's name was something like John, and he was smiling. The conversation thread was visible, and the profile was registered under her name. A message popped up:
He likes you.
You like him.
A car honked three times from across the street; its windows were tinted black. Yes—they could see her. Their headlights flickered, but beyond that there was no indication of who was inside. It could have been the man on her black phone, or another operative responding to the same directive, bound by an agreement demanding total compliance.
"Hey there!"
John, dressed in shades of brown and green, held an umbrella that kept the rain from his hair, which was pulled back from his face. He smiled as he spoke. She mirrored the affect.
"Hey, yourself," she replied, stepping in for a hug despite the damp outer garments, pressing her chest against his torso. She didn't know what they'd discussed in the app, so she established a physical rapport.
The implication of warm breasts amid chill wind and rain was compelling on its own; coupled with whatever words had lured him out into the cold, even the slightest touch would anchor. That was her art: the manipulation of male attention.
He returned her embrace; air from his nose hot on her scalp. Smelling her hair? If only she knew the exact words spoken by whoever wore her face, she could play to the fantasy already concocted and titillate the promised scenario. Instead, she pulled away slowly, tracing the length of his arm with her hand and gripping tightly when their palms met.
A smile spread across his face.
"What are we waiting for?" she asked, flirtatious but sincere. What was going on?
He offered to buy food, then a movie. She wasn't sure. Turning her back to the road, she watched the car across the way, waiting for a sign. None came. It pulled from the curb and disappeared down the street. Smiling at John, she assured him popcorn would suffice.
In the theater lobby, she split her attention between John and the surrounding patrons, aware that others might have received messages on their black phones. John didn't notice.
His voice trembled slightly; he laughed too loudly after a self-effacing anecdote. When he paid, he theatrically displayed the many bills in his wallet before choosing his debit card. She beamed, affirming his competence, his dominance, his success.
He likes you.
They lingered in the lobby near an arcade. He urged her to play.
"I'm no good," she admitted.
"It's not what you're used to," he assumed, shrugging.
She suspected he was referencing something mentioned by whoever had worn her face and chose not to press further.
In the theater, she selected seats toward the back—the darkest corner, farther from the entrances, where the LED strips weaved into the stairs. The projector sat in an alcove high above.
"I love these sorts of movies," he said.
"Me too," she lied. Movies didn't interest her at all, but men liked when women shared their interests.
You like him.
"We never got popcorn."
"Oof," he jumped to his feet. "I'll get candy while I'm at it. Do you eat chocolate?"
"If you're paying," she replied. "I'll eat."
He smiled and shuffled off.
More people entered, scanning the room. Eyes passed over her and the seat where his jacket lay draped on the back, but none sat further than the middle row—except one.
The man's head was shaved; inked skin peeked from his shirt collar. Despite the dim lighting, he wore dark glasses that clamped his skull like a vise, the skin folding over the frames. Spotting her, he crossed the room, ascended the steps slowly, and paused at her row, passing three seats before settling six seats away. He took his phone, typed a few inputs, paused, then slipped the device into his pocket.
After a few minutes, John arrived, carrying a tray piled high with popcorn and candy. Two bottles of Lipton were cradled in the crook of his arm.
"They had soda," he said. "But I didn't know what you'd like. You drink tea, right?"
"Of course," she replied.
She humored a few more of his stories until the lights dimmed. He offered her a nougat-filled chocolate bar; she unwrapped it delicately, biting slowly. The taste was inoffensive but bland.
John watched.
"Like it?"
"It's my first time," she said.
"Not many places have these. My dad ate them all the time. When I saw it at the snack bar, I had to get one."
His enthusiasm was magnetic, the way one is drawn to an eager puppy. His interest was a natural response to physical rapport, yet the anecdote felt unsettlingly personal. Decorum demanded reciprocity—an anecdote of her own, something she could not grant.
She lifted his chin gently, pressed the chocolate to his lips, and whispered, "Bite down for Mama." His skin flushed under her touch; he didn't look away as he swallowed the candy. "Good boy," she murmured.
She disliked the term "Mama," but Nadine swore by it. The Oedipal impulse is reliably potent; it confuses, and what puzzles demands a second look—and ultimately, attention.
Men's attention often required redirection—scratch a dog behind the ear, rub a cat above the tail. Her skill lay in pleasing the client, inflating his ego, and serving as a trophy—a lady of the lake. To the handlers, a woman who fails to inspire desire is worthless.
The movie began. She ran her nails along his thigh, letting the pinky drift toward the seam of his jeans. He stopped talking—her aim achieved—but after a while he placed his tea bottle between his legs in a not-so-subtle manner.
When the final credits rolled, the bald man rose immediately and exited the theater. She and John waited; he proposed continuing the night, she insisted on ending it.
"My roommate doesn't like when I sleep in," she said.
"That's too bad," he replied. "You should be free to come and go. It's your home, too."
She said nothing. The lights rose as staff entered with brooms and trash bins. John led her to the lobby. She didn't see the bald man outside, nor the car in the shadows. Nothing came through her black phone. It was over.
"How are you getting home?" John asked.
She would take the train. Naturally, he offered to drive her, but that was out of the question. No one could know where she lived—for reasons more complex than mere security. When he asked for her address, she gave a neighborhood, not a street.
A neighborhood is an abstraction—nebulous and somewhat subjective. One claims a city but lives in the suburb; the specifics become incidental to the idea of the person in the other's mind. In John's mind, she was still a concept.
A smile.
"It was nice to meet you in person," she said, rising onto the tips of her toes and placing a kiss on his cheekbone. It was a practiced gesture, letting the moment linger before stepping away.
He hadn't thought to get her phone number, but there was no time. A bus pulled to a stop. Never mind the destination; she was Cinderella fleeing lest the enchantment fade.
She glanced back through the window as the bus pulled away. John stood there, far enough to be indistinct but undeniably serene, the theater's neon lights glinting on the wet cobblestone.
She saw two men emerge from the shadows of a nearby building, one looking toward the street, the other focused entirely on the enamored idiot so preoccupied with dreaming he'd lost track of reality.
The bus cleared the intersection, and the moment with John bled into a moment without him.