The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen

“It was. Tonight was the palm reader.” I add ironic emphasis to the words, though the truth is, I kind of had my hopes up about it. Tyler was so enthusiastic, when he described it to me. I wanted it to be cool.

“Somebody should really tell that guy that nobody watches art films anymore.” Eastlin pauses. “In fact, I’m pretty sure nobody makes art films anymore.”

“It’s going to suck,” I inform him. “It’s going to suck so hard I don’t think I’m going to let him put my name on it.”

“Tyler? He probably wasn’t going to, anyway.”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking.

“Now, see this guy?” Eastlin flashes his phone at me, showing a profile picture from some cruising app that he uses. I catch a glimpse of a clean-cut guy our age with a lopsided grin and a backward baseball cap. He looks like a lacrosse player. “Why couldn’t he have been there? He probably doesn’t go to clubs.”

“Actually—” I start to say.

“He probably doesn’t have to. Meets everyone he wants at the polo matches or whatever. He looks like you, if you, like, knew how to dress.”

Eastlin thinks I’m a slob. But then, Eastlin thinks that most guys who wear cargo shorts are slobs, even though cargo shorts are a completely normal thing to wear.

“Actually, you know. It wasn’t bad. It was okay,” I say. I don’t know why I want to defend my night to him. But I sort of do. I mean, it’s not like I was just sitting here by myself playing Minecraft. Which is what I would’ve been doing, if Tyler hadn’t made me go out.

“Bullshit it was. You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

“Yeah. Except . . .” I hesitate. “There was this girl there.”

I regret it the moment I’ve said it.

“Oh, reeeeaaally?” My roommate’s phone has immediately disappeared and he’s zeroed his eyes on me. I’ve taken no end of crap from him about my failure to bring a single girl back to the room in five weeks. More than once he’s pointed out that I’m squandering ridiculous opportunities in the privacy offered by his active nightlife. It’s become a joke.

“Elaborate, please,” he says, resting his chin on his hand.

I close my eyes, my mind’s hand reaching forward to brush the elbow of the girl with the curled hipster hair and the bottomless black eyes. My scalp starts to tingle.

“She was—” I begin.

“Was she hot?” Eastlin likes to cut to the chase. Or rather, he likes to cut to the end of the chase.

I consider the girl’s face. That cool, opalescent skin. The mole above her upper lip.

“Hot isn’t the right word,” I say.

Eastlin’s eyebrows move slowly up his forehead, and he breaks into a smile. His front tooth is chipped, I don’t know from what, but it means that he doesn’t smile widely all that often. “You think she’s beautiful,” he tells me.

“Come on,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“You do. I can tell.”

How can I explain her to him? Not because he won’t understand, but because something about her fails me. She’s impossible to put into words. There’s only the feeling.

“I don’t know how to even tell you,” I say, helpless before the idea of her.

“What did she look like?” he presses me.

“I don’t know.”

“Light? Dark? Big tits? Little tits? Come on. Give me something to work with.”

“Light hair. In this kind of weird, complicated curl situation. Dark eyes.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Actually,” I say, looking at him with new interest. “She was in some crazy deconstructed dress thing. It looked like something you’d have at the store.”

Eastlin’s eyes light up. “She was wearing Abraham Mas? Which one?”

“What do you mean, which one? I don’t know. A dress. With a bow at the neck. Sleeves.”

“Which piece. They all have names. Each design is unique.”

My roommate is clearly trying to be patient with me, but it’s hard for him, living with such a rube. They apparently don’t have rubes in Connecticut, where he’s from.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.