When Claire first gets the notification, she excuses herself from the meeting she is in, goes into the single stall bathroom at her office, and jumps up and down for a solid 15 seconds. 

Her initial burst of ecstasy gone, she more closely examines the notifications tab on her Twitter app: @rickgrieves, host of semi-successful podcast Politisuarus, has done the following:

1. Retweeted Claire’s post (a meme about the upcoming congressional election involving a screencap from Queer Eye),
   
2. Followed Claire back,
   
3. Liked Claire’s three most recent tweets: the Queer Eye meme, a picture of a particularly appetizing empanada she had last weekend, and a selfie that prominently features Claire’s cleavage.  
   

Claire’s body suddenly feels like she has just emerged from a hot tub but not yet wrapped herself in a towel. Not wanting to make any rash decisions, she exits out of the app and returns to Conference Room D. She only looks at the notifications three more times during the meeting. 

◆

Claire’s relationship with Rick began because of her ex-boyfriend. Evan and Claire dated for four and a half months. It was not enough time for Evan to say that he loved Claire but was enough time for Evan to insist that Claire absorb his taste in media. Evan introduced Claire to Politisaurus by making her listen to it on a two-hour drive to meet Evan’s parents, after Claire was unable to retrieve from her memory the specifics of a certain Indiana senator’s views on Medicare. 

“I get all my political news from this podcast,” Evan said. “It really reduces the information you need just to the facts. And it’s funny, too.” They were only fifteen minutes into their drive, barely out of the city, and as Evan plugged the aux cord into his phone, Claire found herself wondering if this was a way to avoid having to talk to Claire for another hour-and-a-half,  a punishment, or both. 

After Evan broke up with her, Claire continued to listen to the podcast. Evan was right, it was funny, and informative, too. Every Thursday morning, a new episode would appear on her iPhone, and she would gleefully pop in her earbuds on her way out the door, letting the voices of Rick, and his two co-hosts, Julian and Katie, accompany her during her walk to the El station, her ride south on the Red Line, her elevator trip up to the seventh floor, only taking them out when she reached her cubicle. Sometimes, if she was up late on a Wednesday, the episodes would be posted early, and she would listen in bed, letting Rick’s description of a Buzzfeed video where Ted Cruz does Simpsons impressions lull her to sleep.

The episodes usually go like this: Julian opens the podcast and introduces whatever guest is booked for the episode. As they discuss whatever political events have happened over the course of the last week, the three hosts each maintain a certain role: Julian is the one who tries to keep the episode on track, Rick is the one who makes jokes and tries to derail the episode, and Katie wavers in the middle, sometimes indulging in a bit with Rick and sometimes agreeing with Julian and guiding the conversation back to whatever topic Julian wants to stick to. Claire likes politics fine, even considered majoring in Poli Sci in undergrad, but her favorite parts of the podcast are when the political discussions dissolve into a debate over if funnel cake is good or not, or if there should have been a Gremlins 3, or if Julian is too old to be wearing the Adidas shoes he just purchased. When they go off track, Claire feels like she is sitting at a party with friends, like any minute Rick could turn to her and ask her to grab him another beer. 

◆

Claire forces herself to take a break from looking at her phone during her commute home. She knows it will only make her sick. When she first moved to the city, she assumed that she would become, magically, someone who would be able to read on the train, even though her parents minivan still had a stain in the backseat from where she threw up on the way to her grandmother’s Thanksgiving dinner because Claire was trying to read A Wrinkle In Time. Claire, now, has a better control over her vomit: years of hangovers and disagreeable SSRIs have created a sort of off-and-on switch in regards to her gag reflex. Eighth grade Claire did not possess this, and when she puked that morning’s cereal, her family was still on the highway. Even though Claire knew her father was frustrated with the situation, not her, she still cried while he, stone-faced, inefficiently scrubbed the car interior with a Clorox wipe in a rural Shell parking lot. This is all to say that the one time that Claire did try to read on the El, thinking she might become the type of woman who could do more than one productive thing in a day, she became so nauseous that she had to stop at a bodega to get an overpriced plastic bottle of Canada Dry, which made her five minutes late to work, which made no one happy. 

When Claire gets back to her apartment, Molly has already taken claim of the couch and is watching an episode of This Is Us, a show Claire likes enough on her own but not enough to watch with Molly. When they became roommates, Claire had wild fantasies of them being friends: making pre-packaged but still vaguely healthy dinners-for-two from Whole Foods, going to Zumba every once in a while, speaking more than five words to each other every day. Molly is the daughter of someone Claire’s mom works with, and while their initial getting-to-know-you texts were fine if a bit stunted, Claire should have known by scrolling through Molly’s Instagram photos that they were not going to be friends. A typical Molly post included a picture of her looking unbelievably, albeit conventionally, attractive, gripping the waist of another similar-looking white girl in a strictly platonic manner. The caption would be something like “sisters before misters!” and the likes would fall somewhere between 200 and 300. 

“Hi,” Molly doesn’t look up from her phone screen. Molly is eating a bowl of rice with an egg on top, and from Claire’s view of the kitchen, she can see that the sink is full of dishes.

“Hey.” Claire leaves her boots by the door without putting them on the shoe rack. She assumes this annoys Molly. “Do anything fun today?” 

“Not really. Just went to Jewel. I got paper towels, by the way.” Molly works part-time, which Claire resents, even though Claire could be doing the same thing if she wanted to. It’s not like Claire even enjoys the extra disposable income that comes with having a salaried job. Any extra money, if it doesn’t go towards paying ahead on her student loans, ends up being spent on something dumb that ultimately makes Claire feel guilty. Last week she spent $25 on a lunch out, because she left her pasta leftovers at home and was feeling shaky, which made her think she might “need” a burger, even though deep down Claire recognizes that no one really “needs” red meat. Even though she enjoyed the burger and house salad and Coke, as soon as she finished and got the bill, she wished she had just stuck it out or got some Lays and trail mix out of the vending machine or something. It’s not like she can’t afford it, but even spending a little extra on herself is a reminder that she could have spent that money on something useful, like retirement. 

For a brief moment, Claire considers telling Molly about the thing with Rick. But what would she tell her, anyways? “Hey, this stranger that I’ve spent months harvesting a crush on just followed me back on Twitter?” When Claire thinks about saying it out loud, the whole situation seems almost embarrassingly mundane. Plus, she’s pretty sure Molly doesn’t even have a Twitter, much less a knowledge of left-leaning political comedy podcasts. Claire retreats to her room and closes the door. 

Claire waits until the next day before sending Rick a direct message. She drafts a variety of messages, from the very chill – a simple “hey” – to the incredibly unchill – “I think I’m in love with you.” Eventually she settles on something that feels close-ish to the truth: “hey! thanks for the follow. i’m a big fan of the podcast!” Claire puts her phone down and tries to resume working on her payroll spreadsheet, but ends up checking her phone two-minutes later, then again and again, until she feels as if her manager is going to take note of her looking at her phone so much, at which point she simply logs into Twitter on her computer. It’s not as if Claire is usually super-focused at work, anyways — she is often refreshing her personal email (waiting for what, she’s not sure), or scrolling through Instagram, liking Molly’s frequent posts with a martyred sense of duty and superiority — but today, there is a charge to her distractions that feels more illicit than usual. 

For lunch, as usual, Claire reheats her leftovers from the night before. Today, it’s spaghetti that she tried to make her own sauce for, trying to be rustic, but the bargain bin canned tomatoes she used have now separated into cold pulpy chunks and cold juice water. While warming it in the microwave, she checks her phone. Rich has messaged her back. 

RICK: Thanks! I liked your Queer Eye tweet lol

Claire hurries back to her desk and takes a bite of her spaghetti. The sauce has not really recombined, and the entire dish is still pretty cold.

CLAIRE: yeah haha 

CLAIRE: love that show

RICK: Me too

Claire has finished her spaghetti. She is still hungry. 

CLAIRE: you guys are coming to Chicago soon, right? I have a ticket 

Claire sends this before she realizes she sounds dumb.

RICK: Yeah, I’m excited, cool city

RICK: Do u live there

CLAIRE: yeah like 10 minutes fromt he venue actually

CLAIRE: *the

RICK: We should get a drink or something beforehand!

At this point, Claire has to put down her phone – this has become a common theme in the past couple of days – and get up to do her dishes. In the kitchenette, scrubbing her bowl with a newly replaced sponge, she reads the various signs and posters above the sink. “Brita filter last changed  10/1/19.” “lost lid for travel mug – pink – email me jen@azp.com if you find it! Thanks!” “Your Rights In The Workplace: Pregnancy And You.” Claire brews herself a Keurig, and returns to her desk. When she checks Twitter, the message is still there. 

CLAIRE: sure!

The dress she had picked out would have been perfect, except it’s colder outside than she thought it would be, and she would need to wear her jean jacket over the dress, which makes her look like she’s an extra on a CW show. Claire is looking at herself in the bathroom, which is the only room in the house with a full length mirror, when Molly walks in.

“Oh, sorry.” Claire says, not turning from the mirror. “I’m almost done.”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine, I didn’t realize you were home.” Molly meets Claire’s eyes in the bathroom mirror. “You look cute.” 

“Actually,” Claire turns around, “Would you have a different jacket or something I could borrow?” 

Molly is silent for a second. Claire almost starts to say, “Never mind,” but Molly says, “Yeah, sure. One second,” and retreats from the door of the bathroom. She returns bearing a faux leather jacket that, when Claire tries it on, is only a little too long in the arms, which Claire sees as preferable to her looking like a guest character on Friday Night Lights. 

“This will work. Thanks.” 

“No worries. Do you have a date or something?” 

Claire can almost feel the capillaries behind her cheeks expanding. “Um.”

Molly laughs. Claire is not ever sure she has heard Molly laugh. “Um? Lucky guy.”

“No, I mean, it’s not a date. But it is a guy.” Claire turns around to face Molly. “He’s like… he’s from this podcast, um, Politisaurus, and they’re having a show tonight and he asked me to get a drink before it.” 

“Oh, yeah. Sam makes me listen to that all the time.” Sam is Molly’s boyfriend, who makes more money than Claire and Molly combined and has an ironic mustache. Claire is not a fan. Though they’ve been dating for two years, Claire has only actually talked to Sam a handful of times, and the last time Sam was at their house, he drank the rest of Claire and Molly’s shared whiskey without asking Claire first. As with most shared things in the house, Claire considers it to be mostly hers, on account of Claire being Claire and Molly being Molly. On learning that Sam, who owns a car that he never drives, also listens to the show, Claire feels a short pang of affection for him, followed by the longer, more familiar ache of self-loathing. 

Molly breaks her out of her Sam spiral by asking, “Are you going to sleep with  him?” 

Though Claire had more abstractly considered the possibility, she hadn’t thought about it full on. Did she want to fuck him? And more importantly, did he want to fuck her? Sure, Claire had thought about waking up in his hotel room – she thought he would probably stay somewhere cool, like the Freehand, or maybe in an AirBnB rented out by an artist who travels a lot – but hadn’t really considered the act itself. Picturing herself on top of Rick, this man whose voice she has come to associate with comfort and safety, makes her hands and feet tingly. She can’t picture Rick’s face when he cums, but if she tries hard, she can almost hear him say, “I’m cumming.” 

Claire doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she says “Sorry, I have to pee,” and closes the door on Molly. As Claire sits on the toilet, she hears Molly go back to her room. She doesn’t actually pee, but she flushes anyway, just to be safe. 

The bar Claire chose was the second result that came up when Claire Googled “cool cocktail bars Wicker Park.” The first bar looked like it would be too busy, and besides, Claire thinks it’s probably cooler to choose the second bar anyways, or, that if Rick was with her, he probably would have thought it was cool. 

Claire has been waiting for about twenty-five minutes for Rick: even though Rick is only five minutes late, Claire got here twenty minutes early so she could get them a seat at the bar. Beyond just being herself in front of Rick, Claire finds that probably the worst thing that could happen is that they could get there at the same time and have to talk on their way to finding a seat. When Claire says her first words to Rick, she wants to be on solid ground – that is, she wants to know where she’s sitting. At one point, a not entirely un-cute man tried to sit next to her, and Claire had to say, “Sorry, I’m saving it for my friend.” The man skulked away, and Claire is left with the taste of the word ‘friend’ in her mouth. 

When Claire is about a quarter of a way through her gin and tonic, Rick enters the bar. Claire sees him before he sees her (obviously, she thinks, why would he recognize me, he doesn’t even know who I am), and Claire is, to her surprise, underwhelmed. Not that he is ugly – he certainly isn’t – but he is skinnier than Claire anticipated, like someone forgot to hold down the shift key while resizing a picture of him in a Powerpoint. Obviously, she’s seen pictures of him before, but she always pictured Rick as someone who could envelop her. In person, he’s very bony. Claire probably weighs more than him, which briefly frightens her on multiple levels before she brushes the thought away. When he does see her – Claire finally gives a little wave – Claire can see that his hair is slightly greasy, and his skin, too, gives off sort of a waxy effect, like he didn’t take a shower this morning. Again, it’s not that he’s bad looking, but he’s just not what Claire expected. When he gives her a hug, he smells fine. 

“Claire! How are you?” Claire feels Rick’s hands above the small of her back. Not on it, but close enough.

Before she can answer, Rick gestures behind him. “I hope you don’t mind,” Rick says, “But my co-hosts tagged along.” Claire now notices that Julian and Katie are sitting at a table about five feet behind Rick.  Julian gives a smile of acknowledgement, but Katie is absorbed in the drinks menu. “They wanted to get out of the hotel.”

“Oh, no worries!” Claire says in what she hopes is a chill voice. Rick walks to their table, Claire a step behind him (the awkwardness of finding a spot to sit not avoided even with Claire’s preparedness). 

“Hi, I’m Claire.” Claire extends a hand to Julian, who makes a show of kissing it: “Good evening, Madam.” 

“Jules left his fedora in New York, I guess,” Rick says, as Julian playfully swats his arm. Claire waits for Katie to introduce herself. When she doesn’t, Claire doesn’t do anything about it. She is still reading the drinks menu, and Claire suddenly finds it embarrassing that she didn’t just wait to order until Rick got here.

“‘CBD infused liquor?’ This bar is wild.” Katie says to the table, eyes still on the menu. 

“Um, yeah, I’ve never been here before.” Katie looks up at Claire, who isn’t sure why she informed Katie of how often she’s been to this cocktail bar. 

“So you don’t have any recommendations?” Katie smiles, more warmly than Claire expected her to. But again, before Claire can answer, Rick cuts in. “Just get a beer, dude. This shit is too expensive.” 

“So… what time did you all get in?” Claire isn’t sure what people talk about in a situation like this, whatever this situation is.

“Like five.” Katie speaks up. She looks Claire in the eye for the first time.

“Oh… cool.” Rick is playing around on his phone. “Are you excited for the show tonight?” Julian is looking at the menu. Katie is looking at the bar, decidedly not at Claire. Claire is not sure who she is talking to. 

“Yeah, no big deal, I mean we had one yesterday, too. And, like, we had the tour last winter.” Rick says this as if he is sure Claire knows the details of this. As if they are actual friends. 

“Dude, do you remember the venue in Tallahassee?” Julian says. “How nasty that green room was?”  

“I’ll never look at ranch dressing the same way,” Katie shudders. The conversation continues like this for a while — that is, Claire isn’t really a part of it. She feels like she is at Thanksgiving when she was thirteen, when her older cousins talked about college and first jobs, and she was left there to smile, dumbly, and pretend that she had any concept of what they were talking about. 

“Oh shit, we gotta get going.” Julian shows his phone to the rest of the table. 

“Oops!” Katie grabs her backpack from under the table and stands up. Julian and Rick join her, and Claire just sort of sits there as they put back on baseball hats and insert wallets back into jean jacket pockets. 

“Are you coming to the show?” Katie asks Claire. 

“Yeah, but it doesn’t start for a while, right?” 

“You could come hang backstage,” Katie offers. “I mean, we have to do mic check and stuff, so it might be boring, but at least you won’t have to wait in line outside.” Claire checks to see if Rick is listening. He’s looking at his phone. 

“Actually, I’m gonna finish my drink here. I’ll catch up with you guys later.” 

Rick is still looking at his phone. 

“Aw, ok.” Katie sighs. “Well, boys, let’s get going.” Katie strides away, Julian following. Rick slips his phone back into his pocket, and says to Claire, “Just wait in the lobby after the show.” And with that, he leaves. 

Claire tries to take a sip of her drink, and realizes that she’s already finished it. 

◆

While waiting in her seat for the show to start, Claire meditates on Fucking Rick. In the weeks leading up to meeting him, she hadn’t yet established a real fantasy about him. She hadn’t even thought about kissing him. But now that Molly has asked her if she’s going to fuck him, she has to make a decision. She tries to conjure up images of Rick nipping at her breasts, Rick dipping his fingers between her thighs, Rick entering her. Rick, hard and naked, just standing there. Claire scans her body, checking for signs of arousal. All she can detect is a sense of nervous anticipation, like she is waiting in line for a roller coaster, and just got to the front. 

As the lights dim, Claire takes stock of her fellow audience members. They are mostly white, which Claire is, but also, they are mostly men. Claire is one of the few women in the audience. Claire has the same feeling that she does when she’s the only woman on a project at work: a sense of pride followed by immediate guilt. 

When Claire was in high school, her main extracurricular activity was theatre. Every year, the Fall Play and the Spring Musical would hold auditions, and every year, Claire would spend weeks agonizing over her 8-bar song selection or her sides. She would enter the group audition, feeling nervous but confident in her ability to be herself. Then, she would see her competition perform. She’d watch Mackenzie Johnson, whose voice was low but clear, opening her mouth wide to catch the E note at the top of “Can’t Get a Man with a Gun.” She’d watch Caroline Brenner read Helena’s monologue while their drama teacher, Mr. Brooks, read for Hermia. 

She’d watch Jo Bell, who had perfectly smooth hair the color of cashews that swished across her shoulders. The stage lights would catch the highlights, making it hard for Claire to focus on mentally preparing for her part of the audition.

The only times that Claire would feel in the moment was when she got to read with the potential male leads. Trading flirtatious barbs with Jason Kratz or having Mark Dover confess his undying love to her made her feel sparkly, like she was a firework just about to detonate Then Mr. Brooks would call “cut” and Claire would fizzle out, as she watched another girl take her place. 

Claire always lost parts to Mackenzie or Caroline or Jo. There could only ever be one íngenue.

◆

After the show, Claire watches as Rick is swarmed with fans. He poses for selfies, sometimes throwing an errant peace sign into the mix. He is very popular, and Claire feels honored that she is about to have sex with him.

The decision, which was made somewhere between intermission and Claire’s second can of Old Style, came down to this: Claire is attractive. Maybe not in an Everlane model or Instagram guru way, but she is a size 6 on a good day and her hair is glossy and she wears expensive perfume. Because of this, Claire thinks that Rick wants to fuck her. On stage, Rick is quick and funny, and Claire decides that if this talented man wants to be with her, she might as well let it happen.

When the last fan has left the theatre, Claire approaches Rick. She had considered asking him to sign the Politisaurus hat she had shoved at the bottom of her tote — ironically, of course, — but decided against it. 

“Great show,” Claire says, touching his jean jacketed arm. “Seeing you guys live is really cool.”

“Yeah, but did you hear when my mic went out? I’m so pissed off.” Rick rolls his eyes. “I need a drink. Are there any, like, quiet bars around here? I’m worn out.”

Rick pulls out his phone. With his head bent forward, Claire can see that his eyebrow hairs are long and wiry. She has the urge to pluck one, but instead, she says: “If you want to go somewhere quiet, we could just head back to your hotel.” 

Claire’s insides are cherry bombs, wicks lit.

“Uh…” Rick looks up from his phone, eyebrow hairs raised. “What?”

”Yeah, you know… if you want.”

Claire’s insides are extinguished.

“Yeah, I’m honestly pretty tired.” Rick’s face is flushed. “But thanks!”

“Oh yeah, that’s fine. Whatever!” Claire forces herself to smile at Rick. Rick looks back at his phone. “Um, I’m gonna run to the restroom real quick,” Claire says. Rick doesn’t respond.

In the bathroom of the theatre, Claire stares at herself in the mirror. Her eyeliner has begun to melt off on one side, what once was a sharp cat eye now a murky blob. Claire wets a paper towel and rubs at it, the cheap brown material scratching her eyelid. When Claire finishes, her eyes are red, and she looks much worse than before.

The door opens, and Katie comes in. 

“Hey!” Katie stands to the right of Claire in the mirror, pulling a lipstick out of her jeans. “What did you think of the show?”  

In the bright light of the women’s restroom, as Katie applies her lipstick, Claire can clearly see Katie. She is wearing a large men’s t-shirt over black skinny jeans. Her long dreads are pushed back by a wool beanie. Her neck is slender, and her tits are perfect. Once Katie finishes applying her lipstick, she rubs her lips together, muddling the color. 

Katie is gorgeous. Claire begins to cry. 

“Hey, oh no, are you ok?” Katie turns towards Claire, gingerly touching her shoulder. “Here, I have a tissue in my purse.”  Katie hands Claire a pack of Kleenex, making eye contact with Claire in the mirror. “Did you want to talk about it?” 

Claire doesn’t know if she wants to talk about it.

“I’m fine. I think I’m gonna head out. It was nice to meet you.” Claire leaves Katie in the bathroom, and when she passes Rick she says “I’m not feeling well.”

“Ah, well.” Rick gives Claire an exaggerated shrug. “It happens!”

“I guess I’ll see you around?”

“I mean, in person no. I live in New York. But digitally, for sure.”

Claire stares at Rick. “I know you live in New York.” Claire doesn’t mean to sound like a bitch, but the words leave her mouth with an alkaline tinge anyways.

“Umm…” Rick breathes in sharply through his teeth. “Ok then. Goodbye hug, I guess?” Rick opens his arms to Claire, like she is a child just learning how to walk. Claire steps into them, smelling Rick’s sweat, his grip flaccid around her back. 

◆

When she gets back to her apartment, Molly is in the kitchen with Sam.

“Claire! Molly said you were at the Politisauraus show?” Sam is hugging Molly from behind as she adds salt to a pot of boiling water. 

“Um, I wasn’t feeling well, so I left.” Claire stopped crying somewhere at the halfway point of the walk home, and is hoping her eyes have a redness to them that is more feverish than anything else. 

“I love those guys. I got so into them in college, it was like all I could talk about.” Sam is trying to talk to Claire, which under other circumstances, she would appreciate, and maybe even try to engage with. Instead, she says, “I’m going to go to bed.” 

From her room she hears Molly and Sam making dinner, their intertwining voices gliding from topic to topic, about if Sam remembered to salt the pasta water and if Molly had heard from her brother today and if they are going to actually get up early enough to go to the farmer’s market in the morning. Claire lies in her bed, still clothed, and listens.