The Paris Review - Fall 2016

to strike her surreptitious East Coast habits, even as, she’d been told, you
could now smoke a joint on the street in Manhattan without fear of anything
more than a ticket, at least if you were white.
“Yo, hit this,” Kim said, and Leslie did.
“We sold, like, three books today,” Kim said. “And they were, like, the
gluten-free cookbook. All of them.”
Leslie passed the piece back.
“Is Max, what, selling organs on the side?” Leslie said.
“I wish he’d cut me in if he were,” said Kim, exhaling smoke. “I think he
might just be rich somehow. I don’t know. His girlfriend is a fire expert? I
don’t think that’s bringing in much bank.”
Leslie took another hit.
“How’s the book coming?” she said.
“What are you, my agent?” Kim said.
“Sorry for being curious about your stupid life ambitions,” Leslie said.
“It’s going slow, man.” She looked down the barrel of the one-hitter and
then tapped the ash out against the wall. “You think, like, Oh, it’s my life, I
can write that, I went to graduate school. But you have to not hate what you
write, you know? Which is hard if you hate yourself to begin with.”
“Maybe you should try not writing about yourself,” Leslie said.
“Who’d want to read that?” Kim said.
They went back into the bookstore, which was dim after the midday
glare. Leslie was surprised by the sharp vertigo of despair—stoned in the
company of her favorite friend, surrounded by good books. She had to admit
that she was dreading Cal’s arrival and subsequent reading. She knew this
was unkind, but lying to herself wasn’t going very well. Her attempt at selfdeception
involved rehearsing dramatic internal monologues of uncertainty.
Well, I don’t know I’m unhappy. Thinking that Cal depresses me doesn’t mean
he actually depresses me. But she knew, underneath these contortions, that if
one had these thoughts for long enough, self-obfuscated or otherwise, one
would eventually need to act on them.
“You okay?” Kim said.
Leslie looked up and realized she’d been standing at the poetry table
unconsciously holding a waifish new Anne Carson hardcover.
“Can I use the computer for a minute?” she said.
“Let me just close out for the day,” Kim said. “Unless you’re buying that.”
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