SUGAR

Flash Fic!

He was a 53-year-old, once-widowed, once-divorced father of four. They’d met on the app that she only resorted to when her energy was lacking and options were limited. Her profile showcased her blondest photos, knocked two years off of her age, and listed her requirements explicitly: Deposit highly recommended. Must pay for dinner, which you are invited to, as well as a hotel room, which you are not invited to. Some men saw this as a challenge, others just sent photos of their penthouses which, albeit tempting, was not

She chose him because he agreed to everything immediately, emailing her a $450 gift card ahead of the date. He was depressing to look at: balding but in denial of it, dressing in trends he should have relinquished (a bomber jacket, joggers). His Instagram profile showed group shots of his kids at soccer matches and violin concerts. In the one family photo he posted, his thirteen-year-old son looked about to his height.

Luckily, he was just looking for someone to talk at. They ate steaks while he agonized over his relationship with his children: Did it make sense to move out of the city if their mothers still lived here? He was ready for some land, you know? Some Real Land. She nodded, staring blankly at her steak knife, wondering how frequently they were sharpened, and whose job it was to do so.

“This was a real treat,” he said as they stood outside, smoking. She’d agreed to one cigarette with him, but the hotel key he’d slipped under the table was burning a hole in her pocket. She stomped out her butt, waved, and wished him luck with his kids. She should have asked for more money, she knew this, but at least she felt safe. At least she could leave without incident.

The walk to the hotel was windy and she’d had so much wine that she felt she might blow over, off the sidewalk. Upstairs, she deadbolted the door and drew a bath. She called down to inquire about breakfast options and a late checkout. She fell asleep in the tub, waking at around 4 a.m., shivering in the chilled water. She took a hot shower then climbed into a fresh, white bed, sprawled limb to limb as if pulled apart. She scrolled through her usual rotation of podcasts. She preferred hosts with likable personalities speaking about things that she had no actual interest in. Lately, she was tearing through a parenting podcast in which two privileged millennials counseled other young influencers with kids. She tapped on the next episode (breastfeeding hacks), popped her headphones in, and settled into the bed.

By the end of the hour and fifteen minutes, she surmised that she was fifteen percent more tired. She tapped another episode (postpartum depression). This one hit a little too close to home; despite never having homicidal urges toward any living thing, she found herself listening a bit too closely to the advice that the guest, a doctor, gave. She pictured a future where she would have to decide whether or not to take antidepressants while pregnant. She pictured herself sunken in bed while her baby was cribbed but screaming. She imagined a filmy haze over her eyes while she turned toward the baby, wanting to get up, wanting nothing more to save the helpless thing she had made, but having no idea how she’d rouse herself, put both feet on the floor, and stand.

She chose a new podcast, this one an hour forty five. It featured four TikTokers, all sharing their roads to fame. “Life in LA is so crazy,” they all agreed. “People don’t think of our jobs as work,” they insisted, “but we work so hard, every single day.”