The Guest

by Emma Cline

Everyone said it was beautiful out here. How many times could this sentiment be repeated?

Even exercising wasn’t enough: every moment had to be leveraged, squeezed tighter.

There were many ways to keep knowledge from yourself, to not think too hard about things you didn’t want to confirm.

You could occasionally be overcome by dislike for strangers: if these boys got zapped into nothingness, would the world really miss them?

He was probably always like this, ferociously easygoing, adapting to whatever was thrown at him. It could be its own form of aggression.

High heels they’d probably just put on outside the restaurant. A short dress that was too formal, either in jewel tones or a faded black. Dresses with some of the same sad reach for elegance as a prom dress. Girls clutching a purse with both hands. Girls in drag as girls.

A man sat down at their table. He told Alex he believed in God but laughed like a girl after he said so.

“Vaginas,” the man said, “those are molds of vaginas.” He watched to see how she would react. As in other moments, Alex found herself smiling for no reason.

Even as she told herself she would try to be better, she was aware that she would not.