Location: His place For: @clark-sanders
It is her third time seeing Clark recently, and Cleo is so eager that she almost can’t stand it. She has taken the 7 train from Midtown to Queens, full of the usual commuter types with their TikTok doomscrolling and trashy fantasy paperbacks and a general air of ambivalence. The summer day hums around her as she walks the remaining blocks to Clark’s home in the early afternoon heat. Tucked under her arm is a glass bottle of Italian soda - blood orange flavored. She had considered wine at the shop but decided against it. It is lunch, after all. And Cleo does not want Clark to think that lunch will descend into debauchery; she is trying to reconnect, not recorrupt. When she reaches his abode, she raps her knuckles sharply against the door three times. “Nice place,” Cleo’s smile beams up when he answers. “You know, a few years ago I tried to buy a house in Queens. Forest Hills. We could’ve been neighbors.” Naturally, the sellers had chosen the nuclear family for their multimillion-dollar Tudor over the twenty-something heiress who turned up at the open house hungover. Their loss, she still thinks. “So what’s on the menu?”