He Chased Fire. She Chased Light. Neither Could Stop.

1. Screen

1:17 a.m. Evan’s thumb slid across the screen. Left, right, left, right. Profiles lit, went dark, lit. Match. She sent an emoji. He replied, “Hey.” They agreed on Saturday, three p.m. Hotel lobby. She wore a white sweater. He smelled her perfume. Two hours later, he put on his shoes. She said, “See you next time.” He said, “Okay.” In the elevator he looked at his phone. No new messages. He walked out to the street, bought a bottle of water. Drank two sips, threw it in the trash. The phone lit up again. He swiped. Left, right.

Evan was thirty-two. Product manager. He had four dating apps on his phone. He remembered the opening screen of each one. He didn’t remember the name of last week’s girl. He remembered a mole on her collarbone. He thought of his father saying, A man has to be able to perform. His father was fixing the water pipe when he said it. The wrench fell to the floor with a clang. Evan was ten. He still remembered that clang.

Sex was fire. He came close, warm. He left, cold. He came close again. He never asked what was behind it.

2. Mirror

Claire was in the bathroom. There was a ring of water stains around the mirror. She pressed the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. Left eye, right eye. She opened Facetune. Slim face. Smooth skin. Enlarge eyes. Save. Post to Instagram. Three minutes, ten likes. She refreshed. Twelve. She refreshed. Fifteen. She put the phone down. Picked it up again. She zoomed in on the photo, looked at her face. She remembered her high school classmate saying, Your eyes are small. Her classmate was eating sour gummy worms when she said it. Her fingers were sticky and shiny. Claire laughed then. She didn’t laugh now.

She was thirty. Graphic designer. She had three retouching apps and two medical aesthetics apps on her phone. She had saved “Botox vs. Fillers,” “Ultherapy Pitfalls,” “Microneedling Real Results.” She had never done any of it. She only saved them. She looked in the mirror every day. She couldn’t picture her own face.

Beauty was light. She stood in the light, afraid of the dark. She stood in the dark, afraid of not being seen.

3. Gathering

A friend’s birthday. A bar. Evan sat in the corner. Claire sat across from him. She wore a black turtleneck. He didn’t look at her face. He looked at her fingers. She picked up a fork; her nails were clean. She smiled. He looked down. He opened his phone. He looked at her Instagram. In the photos, her eyes were big, her skin white. He looked up. In reality, her eyes were a little smaller, her skin had fine lines. He put down the phone.

Claire saw him. He wore a gray sweatshirt. The cuffs were pilled. He spoke slowly. When he wasn’t looking at his phone, he looked at people. She hadn’t been looked at like that in a long time. She picked up her glass. Drank water. It was hot. She put it down.

They exchanged numbers. He sent, “Get home safe?” She replied, “Yeah.” He sent an emoji. She sent an emoji back.

4. Closer

Saturday. Café. Evan ordered an Americano. Claire ordered a latte. He talked about product. She talked about design. He said, “You’re prettier than your photos.” She smiled. She asked, “What do you like about me?” He said, “You’re pretty.” She stopped. He stopped. He reached out. Touched the back of her hand. She didn’t pull away. He leaned closer. She smelled his detergent. He smelled her perfume. His phone rang. He glanced at it. Swiped it away. She saw a profile pop up on the screen. Female. He put down the phone. She said, “You’re busy.” He said, “Not busy.” She stood up. Said, “Bathroom.” He nodded.

She was in the bathroom. Mirror. She opened Facetune. Closed it again. She touched up her lipstick. Came back. He said, “Let’s go.” She took her bag. He took his jacket. They walked out. They didn’t hold hands.

5. Crack

Claire’s apartment. On the sofa. Evan unbuttoned her shirt. She pressed his hand. She said, “Do you even know me?” He said, “We’ll get there.” She let go. He continued. She looked at the ceiling. The light was still on. She asked, “Do you do this a lot?” He said, “Do what?” She said, “This.” He said, “No.” His phone was on the coffee table. It lit up. She saw. A profile. A message: “You up?” He reached for the phone. She watched him swipe it open. She said nothing. He said nothing either. He put down the phone. He kissed her. She turned her head. The kiss landed on her cheek. He stopped. She said, “You should go.” He said, “Okay.” He put on his shoes. Closed the door.

She sat on the sofa. Opened Facetune. Slim face. Smooth skin. Enlarge eyes. Save. Didn’t post. She deleted it.

6. Keyboard

Tuesday morning. Evan in the meeting room. A flowchart on the whiteboard. He opened a document. Wrote the first line. Deleted. Wrote the second line. Deleted. He made a cup of coffee. Took a sip. Bitter. He kept writing. Keyboard sounds. He forgot his phone. Two hours later, he looked up. It was dark outside. The document had three pages. His stomach was empty, but he wasn’t panicked. He picked up his phone. Five notifications. He swiped them away. He didn’t open the dating apps.

Claire in front of the canvas. Mixing colors. Cobalt blue, titanium white, a little ochre. She painted a sea. No boats on the sea. She painted for three hours. The phone was in the living room. She forgot about Instagram. When she finished, she stepped back and looked. She didn’t take a photo. She didn’t post. She washed her brushes. The water turned blue. She poured it out. Blue remained in the sink.

7. Dinner

Dave said at dinner, Women just want novelty. Dave was thirty-eight, divorced twice. His phone rang. He glanced at it, smiled. He replied. He put down the phone and continued, The next one’s better. Evan didn’t respond. He picked up a slider. Greasy. He put down his fork.

The boss said, Once this project ships, you’ll get promoted. Evan nodded. He calculated the commission. He calculated the down payment. He calculated the kid’s college. He calculated up to forty-five. He took a sip of whiskey. Spicy.

Claire’s teacher said, Paint your own painting. Don’t care if anyone looks. The teacher was seventy. Painted abstract art. No shows. No sales. Lived outside the city. There was a fig tree in the yard. Claire didn’t understand then. She nodded. She went back to retouching. Later, one day, after she finished painting, she didn’t take a photo. She remembered the teacher’s words. She opened Facetune. Closed it again.

8. Leaving the Group

Evan left a group chat. Every day the group posted dating stats. Screenshots, scores, reviews. When he left, the admin sent a question mark. He didn’t reply. He turned off dating app notifications. The next day, he opened them again. He swiped for ten minutes. He closed them. He deleted one app. Then another. Two left. He put them on the second page of a folder.

Claire left a group chat. Every day the group posted Botox group buys. Fillers, microneedling, Ultherapy. When she left, no one asked. She moved the retouching apps to the second page of a folder. She posted a photo. Original. With pores. With fine lines. With dark circles. Ten minutes later, she deleted it. The next day, she posted another. Original. She didn’t delete it.

9. Ten Minutes

Evan sat for ten minutes every morning. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t read. Just sat. Sexual urge came. He watched it. Like watching a car pass. The car left. He was still there. He asked himself, What am I afraid of. He had no answer. He kept sitting.

Claire sat for ten minutes every night. Didn’t look in the mirror. Didn’t scroll through Instagram. Just sat. Appearance anxiety came. She watched it. Like watching a cloud. The cloud left. She was still there. She asked herself, What am I craving. She had no answer. She kept sitting.

10. Convenience Store

Ten p.m. CVS. Evan bought Tums. His stomach had been hurting lately. Claire bought a pothos. The one on her windowsill had died. They met in front of the shelf. He took Tums. She took the pothos. He saw her. She saw him. He said, See you tomorrow. She said, See you tomorrow. He paid. She paid. He walked out. She walked out. He turned left. She turned right. His phone was in his pocket. It didn’t light up. Her pothos was in her hand. The leaves brushed the plastic bag. Rustle.

He went home. Put the phone in the living room. Went into the bedroom. Turned off the light. She went home. Put the pothos on the windowsill. Watered it. Turned off the light.

The night had no fire and no light. It was long. Work was in the morning.