Shitty Utopia
There are eight windows in the room. Nine, if you count Alan’s laptop. Steve, our couple’s counselor, said he’d be with us in a moment. The rain slides down the glass and blurs the trees outside. It’s summer and the leaves are green. Alan is typing away. We volunteer for the Autonomy Coalition and he’s in the middle of a messaging shift, talking to voters about the referendum that’s coming up. Seven minutes have passed. There are eight windows in the room, and each one is subdivided into eight panes. If Steve doesn’t open his door in the next ninety seconds I’m going to get up and leave. This is ridiculous, says Alan. He closes his laptop. Outside, the green world drips. There are sixty-four panes of glass in the room. Seven more minutes pass. We leave. On the way out, I catch my own eye in the elevator’s mirrored wall: a level, holding gaze.
The next day, Steve sends an apologetic text. He had a family emergency and will be unavailable for the foreseeable future. We should make an appointment with his colleague, a woman named Debbie Rivers. He’s pretty sure she’ll take our insurance.
#
Alan and I met five years ago, at the Queer Craft Exchange. I’d been hemming a Star Trek uniform, a form-fitting jumpsuit, for a fee-paying client named Lindsay. The costume was for a themed wedding, and Lindsay was not happy. When I brought him the mirror he cursed. Not because the suit didn’t fit—it just looked terrible on his body type, which was short and round.
Why are they making me do this? he cried. I’ve never even seen the show! Fuck this shit!
He was loud. People looked over.
Go ahead, stare, he said to them. Go ahead! They’ll all be staring when I’m up on the wedding platform. They’re gonna say, oh look, Lindsay got fat, he’s drinking too much.
It’s not you, I said. These costumes look terrible on everyone.
No they really don’t, he said. Every other guy in the wedding is tall. And athletic! They’d look great in trash bags!
He pulled at the polyester-rayon-spandex and the garment puckered at the seams.
Alan stepped forward. I didn’t know his name, although I’d seen him before. Privately I had labeled him the hot big-nosed white guy from the supply table.
What’s the story with this wedding, he said.
It’s my sister’s wedding, said Lindsay. Her girlfriend’s a big Trekkie.
Alan frowned. Is her girlfriend a sadist? This is the most uncomfortable, unflattering fabric I’ve ever seen.
Lindsay wailed.
Don’t blame Sun, said Alan, examining a cuff. He did a great job.
That was a surprise. I had no idea he knew my name, and would have acknowledged the compliment if Lindsay hadn’t been raging.
Listen, said Alan. If you have the time and the money, why not buy a high quality fabric and pay a tailor to make a two piece version? A superfine wool gabardine would work well. Right, Sun?
I said it was a great idea. I said I could probably download a pattern and make it myself, I needed the money.
Lindsay was eventually persuaded, and when he stepped into the new version a few weeks later, he was so pleased he took me and Alan out for drinks. By then we’d started seeing each other.
Back in those days, we were even more broke than we are today. I had a part time online teaching job, and I was trying to start a tutoring business. But at least I had my own place. Alan lived with two roommates. He slept in the living room and paid the rent in cash he earned as a handy man. He had to work under the table because he’d defaulted on his student loans and the government was trying to garnish his wages. With interest, the amount he owed was three times the sum he’d originally borrowed. Alan’s situation is the reason we got involved in Regional Sovereignty. The NorthEast Federation was promising debt amnesty, and we saw it as his path out of servitude.
After a year, we decided to live together. There were no one bedroom apartments in our price range, so we got on the wait list for the low income housing lottery. In the meantime, Alan moved in with me. For that we had to get married—it was the only way my lease allowed an additional occupant. I met Alan’s mom for the first time when she came to town for the ceremony. We’d arranged to meet on a bench in the park by City Hall. Before she arrived I was a little anxious. He’d always described his mother as a tough old bird, and I was picturing a glamorous widow with an angled beret and a slash of lipstick. Then a grizzled old lady shuffled over. Alan stood up, and for a moment I wondered why he was hugging a homeless person. He turned to me and said, this is Gwen. When she kissed me I smelled weed, and something else, something sour.
While we sat in the City Clerk’s waiting room Gwen asked me questions about myself, saying it must be nice to live in the same city as my parents. Had Alan met them, she wanted to know? Only once, he said, folding his arms. To forestall further questions I asked what Alan was like as a kid. Oh! said Gwen, do I have stories! She proceeded to tell them, repeating herself a lot. I think she said the word stubborn five times.
It’s been two years now, and we’re still sharing my studio apartment. I’d like to say we’ve made it work, living in a tiny space, but it’s been a challenge. Last Christmas was particularly hard. Gwen visited and spent the entire time in the apartment, talking, asking questions, vaping out of the window. I showered at the gym and wore headphones at home but still she assumed that I was always available for conversation. We had a huge fight after she left.
This year we’re spending the holidays on our own. Rahul and Sheila, our neighbors, are having a Diwali party tomorrow but we’ll be on a minibus, riding down to D.C. for an Autonomy Coalition rally. Alan and Sheila are pals. They both love baking. Alan likes to go over there for a cup of tea, bringing shortbread or brownies for the kids, returning with carrot halwa or cookies. He enjoys spending time with their family. He rarely comes along on my dutiful monthly visits to mine, which is one reason why we’re in couples counseling.
#
A company called Brightwish Holdings has purchased our building. Every tenant has to download an app called ServiceKey. It links to your bank account, to facilitate rent payments and streamline communications. You can still pay in cash, but only if you go to the company’s regional headquarters downtown, and pay an additional three percent courtesy fee. They’ve also assigned every rental unit a unique Digital Access Code, to log maintenance requests. When I run into Rahul at the elevator he tells me about friends in Houston whose rent has almost doubled since Brightwish took over their building.
#
After our introductory meeting, Debbie Rivers assigns us a homework exercise. Each of us has to go through our text messages and choose one from the other person. When we meet again each of us will read the message aloud and say how it makes us feel. On the morning of our next session, Alan sits at his desk, frowning at his phone, doing the assignment. She doesn’t understand about being non-monogamous, he says. I gather from this that he’s going to pick a text from our fight about the thing I had with a guy from our rugby team, how I lied to Alan about it. I’ve put the assignment off all week. I don’t want to read through screenfuls of bitter words.
When it’s time to log onto the Telehealth portal we sit on the couch and fill out the screening questionnaire on Alan’s laptop. He asks if I did the homework. Instead of answering, I pull out my phone and search my messages for the word dishwasher.
#
The first time Alan met my parents, I brought him to their place for dinner. Everything went well until he tried to help with the clean up, stacking the dishes and taking them into the kitchen. My mom let him do it, to be polite, but after a moment she followed him in to watch, the way she watches everything. I heard her gasp. She returned and, lapsing out of English, ordered me to make him stop.
Alan was at the sink, rinsing a bowl for the dishwasher. Don’t do that, I said. They wash the dishes by hand.
But it was already half full, he said, reaching down to place the bowl on the dishwasher’s top rack. Oily water dripped from the bowl onto the small teapot my grandfather uses every morning.
No, I said, sharply. The stuff in there is clean.
It’s very wasteful to run the dishwasher when it’s half empty, he said as he dropped spoons one at a time into the silverware caddy.
They don’t run it, I said. They only put things in there to dry.
He stopped and stared at me. I reached behind him to turn the water off.
Now they’re going to have to wash everything again, I said.
Is the dishwasher broken?
There was a note of hope in the question. He wanted things to make sense.
No, it’s just…It’s their way. They say it’s too expensive. It wastes water. It doesn’t get the dishes as clean as handwashing.
Dishwashers are vastly more energy efficient, he said. And doing dishes by hand uses like six times more water. Before I could stop him he went into the dining room to explain this to my mom.
#
We just got a message from the ServiceKey app about a new waste disposal system. The subject line was Increasing Equity and Facilitating Fiscal Transparency Through Waste Management. They’re installing smart locks on the trash chutes, and you have to input your apartment’s Digital Access Code to use them. There’s a ten dollar disposal fee for each use. As an alternative, you can weigh your own garbage and pay an exact charge. To do this you need to use the trash chute on the twelfth floor, which has a scale attached to it. That’s what we’ll do, Alan says. We’re not paying ten bucks.
Rahul and Sheila feel the same way. After the locks go on the four of us visit the scale together, bringing our garbage with us to see how much it costs. It’s only about a dollar fifty per bag, so our two households work out an informal garbage-sharing system, taking turns to bring our bags up to the scale.
A few weeks later, ServiceKey sends another notification saying that garbage isn’t allowed in the main elevator, only the freight elevator, and to use that you have to put in a request twenty four hours in advance. I suggest we suck it up and pay the fee, but Alan refuses: waste disposal is a basic amenity. He insists on dragging our dripping bags up the stairs to the twelfth floor. Rahul does this too, although Sheila admits to me in the laundry room one evening that she’s paid the fee on days when she’s home alone and the garbage is overflowing and the kids are bumptious.
#
Alan and I are in a session with Debbie when the referendum results flash on our phones. Suddenly we are distracted. She can tell something has happened, so I hold my phone up to the camera and say, Sorry, but this is big. The proposition passed! A landslide victory for the Northeast Federation!
All she says is, ‘oh.’
I have a giant grin on my face, and so does Alan. We look at each other and he reaches for my hand, squeezing it.
Debbie, he says, we worked so hard for this, we’ve been getting up at five on weekends just to go door-to-door in the suburbs.
He speaks in a cajoling voice, because Debbie looks unhappy. Is she against devolution? Could that even be possible?
Let’s stay focused, she says, with a small and not very genuine smile. It’s no use. Alan is thumbing through the district-by-district counts, and I’m texting Silvana, the regional coordinator, about a victory celebration. After a long pause, Debbie asks me to repeat what I was saying earlier, before the news came through. Something about a fight we’d had a few days ago. I try to oblige, but the anger has disappeared. I’m still holding Alan’s hand.
#
I’m sitting on the balcony. It's winter and the trees are bare. Three cars with out-of-town plates have driven down our narrow street, looking for parking. Finally a tiny little smart car pulls out. A camper van shows up and tries to back into the vacant space. After three failed attempts a girl wearing a bandanna and a long skirt gets out to guide the driver. The van angles backwards, then stops. The engine has stalled. The girl puts her hands on her hips and looks around, as if to say, are you seeing this shit?
I’m out here because it’s super hot in the apartment. Alan is baking a pie. A rhubarb pie, with a soy meal crust. Once it’s in the oven he joins me outside. We watch another van turn onto our street and stop behind the first van, blocking the road. A couple of rusted cars pull up behind it. Eventually they all crawl on, continuing the futile search for a spot.
It’s been like this all day—there’s a giant demonstration planned for tomorrow, and people are coming in from all the surrounding states. A U.S. senator is speaking at City Hall. The senator is the reason for the protest. He voted for the Investment Property Protection Act. Of the many compromises to come out of the Constitutional Convention, this one’s the worst. When it goes into effect, landlords will be allowed to set a debt ceiling for tenants. They can terminate the lease if your monthly payments exceed the limit. The bill’s defenders say the Northeast Federation couldn’t get enough votes in Congress without it. Its opponents, a group which includes me and Alan, argue that the devolution referendums would never have passed in the first place if this legislation were part of the deal.
Alan comes out and announces that the pie is in the oven. We watch the cars together. An old Ford Transit van appears and idles across the street while the driver inspects the vacant space. After a minute, the smell of recycled cooking oil reaches our nostrils. Biofuel, says Alan.
When the van pulls away we glimpse the slogan painted on its side: Thorndon Two: Easy Living for Difficult People. Oh, says Alan, that’s the Thorn Group. They’re cohousing people.
Lately he’s been talking a lot about cohousing. There’s an Intentional Community Clause in the Income Property Protection Act. After it goes into effect, renters can break their leases at any time without a fine if they join a communal living organization. According to Alan, the Thorn Group is worth a look. They have a lot of communities, here and overseas, and they cater to difficult people, whatever that means. Some of their locations will buy your debt and give you a job. Alan says he’s requested their brochure. He asks if I’m coming to the protest with him. I tell him I can’t, I have to teach.
The apartment still smells like pie when I wake up the next morning. Alan has already left. I make my coffee and go online to read my students’ assignments. A couple of hours later, on a break from class, I get a call. It’s an unknown number so I let it go to voicemail. It rings again, same number, so I answer. It’s Alan, calling from a loud place on a bad line. He got arrested. He tells me he didn’t do anything, he was just standing in the audience listening to the senator’s speech. He wasn’t even carrying a sign. I offer to come and pick him up but he says no, he's being held for arraignment.
What? If you didn’t do anything—
It’s okay, there’s a civil liberties lawyer here, she’s taking the case.
But why—
I can’t talk, he says. People are waiting for the phone.
The next day, I go to court and wait all day until Alan finally appears. He looks exhausted. The suit jacket provided by his lawyer is too small, it doesn’t button across his chest. The state’s attorney explains to the judge that Alan was carrying a pie when he was arrested. He’d insisted that it was a gift for the senator, but the police said it was an imminent threat and seized his phone. The browser was open to an online clown academy’s guide to throwing pies.
The judge looks over her glasses at Alan. He smiles. She doesn’t. He’s released on bail. I have to borrow money for the bond. I call Gwen, but she’s broke like us. Asking my parents is out of the question. I search online and finally get a loan through an app called FinFree. The interest rate is extortionate, even if you agree to share your data. Even worse, it turns out that Brightwish’s parent company also owns FinFree.
#
People in our building have been hoarding garbage in their apartments so they only have to pay the fee a couple of times a month. Now there’s a vermin infestation on every floor. I sent a ServiceKey message requesting an exterminator and got a reply saying that Brightwish’s Pest Eradication Fee is two hundred dollars. So we tackle the problem ourselves, with traps and poisons. Rahul and Sheila do the same. Then a message goes out saying that independent remediations are prohibited under the terms of ServiceKey’s User Agreement. The fine for violations is three hundred dollars. After this, a whole bunch of people make plans to move out, even though the penalty for breaking the lease is two month’s rent and a cleaning fee based on years of occupancy.
We’re stuck, I say in a text to Alan. The housing lottery waitlist is years long, the Federation failed us on debt amnesty, and thanks to your pie stunt the service on our loans is almost equal to our rent. We can’t afford to move.
In response he sends me a screenshot from the Thorn Group’s application page. It’s a list of instructions for drafting your personal statement, which they call an Avowal. You have to say what makes you difficult, and how you relate to the group’s basic principles. I say I’ll look at it, but I’m apprehensive—living with weirdos who rule by consensus? Am I really cut out for that?
#
One day, before a couples counseling session, Alan logs into the fake social media profile we use to stalk my family. He wants to do some research on Debbie. I’m against it, but when he says to me, you’d better see this, I go over and look at Debbie’s profile picture. It's a posed photo of her at the gun range. She is wearing hot pink ear protection and rose-colored wraparound shooting glasses. Her arms cradle a hot pink semi-automatic assault rifle. Her T-shirt says Patriots for the Preservation of Thanksgiving.
I wish I hadn’t found this, Alan says.
We cancel our appointment using instant messaging. Now we have to find another therapist, one who takes our shitty insurance. We can’t spend money on couples counseling, we’re trying to get our loan balance below the debt threshold before the Income Property Protection Act goes into effect.
#
A few months ago, Alan and Rahul decided to start a tenants association for our building. They reserved the MultiPurpose Amenity Room for a meeting, and posted announcements on every floor and in the laundry room. Brightwish sent someone to take these down, citing the rule against unauthorized signage. They canceled the room reservation too, sending a notification that the Multipurpose Amenity Room is closed indefinitely, for critical repairs. So Alan and Rahul spoke to the neighbors individually. There are seven apartments on our floor, and we got every unit to sign up for a day when they’ll be available for 30 minutes of waste disposal duty. During this period, anyone can bring their garbage to the trash chute and dispose of it using the designated apartment’s access code. No apartment would spend more than ten dollars a week this way.
Our scheme worked so well, all the floors in the building adopted it. Then ServiceKey sent a message saying it’s against the law to handle other people’s trash. For tenants’ protection, Brightwish would be installing garbage room cameras and notifying authorities about trash violations. This scared a lot of people, because every floor has at least one tenant facing civic insecurity. Rahul and Sheila were afraid because Rahul was born overseas. Alan wrote back saying no one is handling anyone else’s trash, we’re all disposing of it ourselves, but the message had done its job and only a few apartments continued with the system. So Alan devised another plan. He went to the thrift store and bought a bag of old sheets. I pulled out my sewing machine, and together we made twelve large, shapeless hooded robes, with holes for the eyes and the mouth. We only used patterned sheets, to avoid being compared to the Klan. Then Alan visited every floor, carrying the robes and knocking on doors to explain his idea: we go back to the trash sharing scheme, but now everyone wears a robe when interacting with the trash chute. That way, Brightwish would be unable to distinguish between the person inputting the access code and the person disposing of waste. Everyone said yes.
So far this method is working. Some floors are arguing over who’s in charge of laundering robes, and whether tenants should shower before putting them on, but these aren’t huge issues. The fifth floor neighbors chipped in to buy enough fabric to make seven identical robes, one for each apartment. Other floors will probably do the same. Ours will keep on using the same robe. I work at home, so it’s easy to put it in the laundry, and I don’t mind leaving the door unlocked so people can grab it from the hook. Plus, Alan is attached to the robe he made for us. It’s fashioned from a kid’s bedsheet and the print has dinosaurs and balloons and superheroes. He likes it because it reminds him of linens he had as a kid, and he thinks he had a happy childhood.
For a short while, things were great in our relationship. We decided not to bother looking for a new couples counselor. Standing up to Brightwish had brought us together. But the optimism drained away last week, when ServiceKey sent a notice about the Income Property Protection Act. Even with the money we set aside, our debt exceeds the company’s risk threshold. We have to vacate the apartment in ninety days. The only other option is to negotiate a debt consolidation plan that lowers our monthly payments. The message included a link to a consolidation service called Ashore, which Alan looked up. It’s owned by the same company that owns Brightwish and FinFree.
Rahul and Sheila came for dinner last night and were horrified when they learned our situation. They think we’ve been singled out. They offered to make us an interest-free loan from their retirement funds, which was astonishing and embarrassing in equal measures. We can’t accept it. We didn’t tell them, but this latest development has destroyed us. We’ve decided, amicably, to break up. The problem is that neither of us can afford a place on our own. For now, like a lot of couples in this city, we’re separated but cohabiting. I’m starting to come to terms with the idea of cohousing. It’s that or move back to my parents’ place.
#
Today is Thursday. As of midnight, seventy two days remain before we have to move out. We still haven’t decided what to do. Right now, I’m more concerned that the cleaners are coming and the place is a mess. Alan refuses to tidy before they show up. Our place only takes an hour to clean, and the cleaning firm’s minimum charge is two hours, so in his view they should do the tidying.
I’m going for a walk. When I tell Alan this he says okay, sounding distracted. He’s in his undershorts, watching a tutorial about the pitfalls of debt consolidation. I close the door on the mess, telling myself it’s not my problem, but then, in the elevator, I feel guilty. Not about neglecting to tell Alan—he’s sticking to his principles—but about the cleaners. They work for a company called Inglenook, which all Brightwish tenants are required to use. Inglenook mostly hires refugees, either from the Patriot States or from bad weather zones, and it pays them peanuts. They live on barges in the harbor. Their lives are bad enough without having to deal with a half naked grown man looking at his laptop. So, for their sakes, I text Alan from the lobby: FYI today is a Inglenook day. Maybe he’ll put on pants and load the dishwasher.
On Inglenook days I usually go to the gym, but since it’s the first morning in a week that it hasn’t rained, I think I’ll head for the river. Then the sky clouds over and it starts to drizzle, so I decide to get a coffee. There are two cafes in our neighborhood, Lattely and Neil’s. Lattely is one of those chains that’s also a bank. You have to order through an app, and it’s always crowded because they have unlimited wifi. I like Neil’s because it’s old school, one of those minimum wage, tip-subsidized establishments that used to be all over the city.
Neil’s is busier than usual. Waiting to place my order at the counter, I observe the crowd. Everyone’s part of the same group—they all have the same green drawstring backpack—and they’re holding a meeting. There are a few younger people in the mix, but mostly they’re my age or older, men, women, and others, diverse in both demographic and style. Some of them are slightly unkempt, others seem to have dressed with great care. A few tables are loud and chatty, while some barely speak. I want to sit and eavesdrop, but the barista is slammed and by the time I order the group is leaving. As they clear their tables, someone calls out Compost! Compost! in a singsong voice. They pass around a silicon pouch, which people stuff with used teabags and fruit salad leavings. I smile at this. It’s the kind of unexpected social weirdness I would have filed away to tell Alan about, back when we were happy.
What’s the deal with the group, I ask the barista.
They’re cohousing folks. They come in once a month for a meeting. We source our honey from them.
He nods at a stack of mason jars, sticky and oozing. On the labels I read Cluster Bee: A Thorn Community.
Oh hell no, I say. Easy Living for Difficult People?
Thorners, the barista says. They’re a mood.
I sip my cortado and drift over to the publicity table by the cafe door. The Thorners have left a stack of brochures, identical to one I threw into the recycling this morning. Last night, to put an end to Alan’s badgering, I agreed to look at the personal statement he’d drafted. I started out thinking that if I liked what I read I would maybe consider drafting my own, but by the end of it I was fuming. He’d written it as if we were still together! When I challenged him, he said he thought we were still negotiating. No, I said. No we are not. Well then, he asked, why hasn't one of us moved out? Why do we still share groceries? Why do we still have people over for dinner?
The cafe door opens, and rain blows in. Two women stand at the threshold, looking around.
He’s not here, says one, short and round, blonde and British.
The other woman is tall, with unruly curls and freckles. Go in, she says. I’ll watch for the bus.
Her companion enters, dripping onto the floor, and removes her green drawstring backpack. I look over at the tall woman and see that she has one too. For a second I imagine the Thorners are stalking me.
I bet he’s in the bathroom, says the tall woman. Go knock.
The British woman goes over and tries the handle, then taps on the door.
Hova? Are you in there? It’s Vanessa. We need to go.
One minute, says a voice.
He’s using the free wifi, says the tall woman. And probably submitting receipts he found in the trash.
Vanessa says: when I lived with him, he wrote his initials in pencil on individual eggs, and if he came in and saw me making an omelette, he would check the shells in the bin to see if they were his.
The bathroom door opens and its occupant emerges, a tall, bald man with ashy skin. Guess what, he says. I signed up three new clients and found a queen vendor in Georgia. Saved us twenty U.S. dollars.
Vanessa says, you still haven’t paid me for your coffee.
I’ll get cash at the station, says Hova, striding to the door. The women exchange glances. They look at me too, and we share a moment of silent, amused vexation. But a part of me has sympathy for Hova, hiding in the bathroom with his phone. For years, the bathroom was my only refuge from the repressive respectability of my family. And although initialing individual eggs is a bit much, I can relate to the need to keep track. In fact, since Alan eats so many eggs, I might try it as an experiment.
I pick up a brochure and point to the geodesic dome on the cover. You guys live here?
I do, Vanessa says. Tonia lives in our pod community up in the Highlands.
Sounds nice, I say.
Paradise, says Tonia. Utopia.
Vanessa says, it’s a shitty utopia. The best we can hope for.
She seems very cheerful. Maybe that’s what makes her a difficult person? Relentless cheerfulness? As I’m thinking this my phone rings. I answer and hear Alan hissing into my ear.
It's not my job to remind you. Check your messages, I can’t talk.
I hang up. Vanessa looks at me with a sympathetic smile and says, Married?
Uh, kind of separated, but we live in a Brightwish building, and we have legacy debt… actually my husband wants to join your organization.
Tonia says, a lot of our newer members are couples who want to live separately.
Marriage is a shitty utopia too! says Vanessa. We’ve got all sorts. Polycules and polyps; exes-in-name-only; singles-by-choice. And lots of dead and dying bedrooms. But everyone gets along, more or less. Come to an open house, first Sunday of every month. But come soon! We’re going to be swamped once the Income Protection for Parasites Act goes into effect.
The phone buzzes again. Alan. As I hold it in my hand, debating whether to answer, Vanessa and Tonia make a silent, waving exit. The call goes to voicemail. Outside, the wind is blowing the rain sideways. I look at the brochure, scan the QR code, and go to the company website.
Are you difficult?
These words greet me on the landing page, along with an animated avatar, a green triangle with legs.
I scroll down to a list of Thorn communities. Many of them have special themes and interests. There’s one in the Great Lakes region that’s a donkey sanctuary, ceramics studio, and organic vegetable farm. Demographic: women and gay men of all genders. That doesn’t sound bad. I scroll on to the description of a place called ThornCaves, a former college dorm in a near-city suburb, purchased in a bankruptcy sale. The units are all single occupancy with high-speed internet, and the building has a full gym and a lap pool. This makes me think of Alan when we first moved in together. He was on a swim team and had practice every morning. I’d wake up at 8 am and he’d be sitting there with wet hair, gobbling coffee ice cream. I could see Alan living in a dorm, especially one with a pool.
A notice pops up: I’ve used all my wifi. Time to head out into the rain, back to my shitty life, my shitty apartment, my shitty marriage. The brochure is still in my hand.