Why Do I Hate Estelle?

Everyone’s an artist. I’m not.

We meet up with Estelle and the guy she’s dating at the Red Room. She orders an Amaretto Sour, which she sips though a thin straw, through her plump lips.

Her skin is like porcelain. “So, what do you do, Sabina?” she says in her phony anglicized accent, blowing smoke into my face.

What do I do?

I want to make something up, like that I’m a detective or an astrophysicist. But why should I try to impress this girl? She means nothing to me. She’s not even that hot. My measure of hotness for women is this: Could she be in Vogue? Could she be a model? Nope, she couldn’t.

But I’m jealous that she is doing something, that she’s an artist. But then again, everyone is an artist these days. It’s all so tiresome. I try not to blink, holding her gaze. Why do I hate this girl so much?

“I spend most of my time fucking Spencer,” I say. “And I surf a lot.”

“I see,” says Estelle and empties her sour.

We glare at each other. Spencer stares into space, blowing smoke rings. Estelle’s date seems to study the snare drum the way I usually do. I have no idea why we’re even here. I thought I was going to meet one of Spencer’s friends, not some former fuck buddy.

This is pointless.

I grab my fur jacket and car keys and get up. “I’m leaving,” I announce. I point my chin at Spencer. “I’m sure they can give you a ride.”

I walk out and drive home, listening to P.J. Harvey, which reminds me of menstrual blood, which reminds me of Estelle, which reminds me that my life is pointless, because I am not an artist, and I am doing nothing.

There’s a full moon in the sky and it has some strange circle around it.