Oh, the interchangeable men on the Google Calendar—Chris, Pete, Rob, Malcolm—like so much bland litter; taking Ubers and Lyfts to restaurants and bars; doing the math to split the bill and match the tip with men who own bicycles more expensive than their furniture, men who are oddly puritanical about hops and vegetables, men who are boastful of their neuroses—the trauma, the therapy, the meta-therapeutic rejection of therapy. One told me in earnest that it was important that I know right away, from the start, that he hated his mother. I just nodded over my Korean short rib, sipped my orange
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