Maya Kalev is a London-based writer of fiction and criticism. She is a contributing writer at The Wire magazine, and her journalism, profiles and essays around contemporary music and culture have been widely published in The Guardian, TANK Magazine, Dazed, and The Quietus, among others.
She is currently working on her first novel, about women making art, madness, and climate grief.
maya.r.kalev@gmail.com
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Going Places
I’d come to New York to start my life. I’ve always been a bad flyer, and before take-off I had to touch my eyelashes and cheeks to calm down. The flight attendants smiled and gave me free snacks – I have that kind of face.
After a month in the city, I’d settled into a routine of staying up late watching old sitcoms, then calling my agent whenever I got up. She’d got in touch after seeing me in an ad for sanitary towels. The man who’d scouted me for the ad, back in Florida, had followed me to the bus stop after work. I’d held my keys between my knuckles, ready to claw his eyes out if it came to it.
When my agent said I looked like a young Esther Williams I was flattered, even though I’d never heard of her. She said if I wanted an acting career, I’d need to move to New York.
Of course I wanted an acting career, who didn’t love movies?
‘Movies?’ she laughed, ‘Honey, let’s start with ads and see how we go.’
There was the problem of money.
Not a fan of the 9-5? the Craigslist ad said. Do you want to be empowered to make money at a time that suits you? Give us a call and join Marie Vogel’s family of entrepreneurs!
I could be empowered. I called the number. A woman with ravaged vocal cords said I could pick up my product the next day. The first kit would cost a hundred and twenty dollars; I’d make six hundred from that, plus a kickback on the sales of any new reps I recruited. Did that sound good? Yes, I said, figuring I’d take the cash out on the credit card I’d kept for medical emergencies.
I asked if she needed my headshot – I still had a stack of 8x10s – but she said, ‘No need. I can tell just from your voice that you’re a looker, hon.’
Marie Vogel Cosmetics HQ shared the second floor of a Bushwick building with a nail salon and an attorney’s office; acetone fumes and old cigarette smoke mingled in the hallway. The woman I’d spoken to had bulging eyes and wore thick foundation a shade too dark. She took my cash and handed me a pink plastic case that unrolled either side to reveal compartments for lipstick, eyeshadow and so on, along with a handbook, script, and binder of addresses.
I was about to point out the typos – mascarra, lip bolm, sirum – when she said proudly, ‘I wrote that. Stick to the script, honey, and you’ll be back for more before you know it.’
I smiled with Vaseline-slicked teeth.
Back home, my life had revolved around my boyfriend, Matt. When I first met him, I was desperate to be in love. Between my debts, an out-of-it mother, and job at Victoria’s Secret, my world felt like it was collapsing in on itself: falling in love was the most daring thing I could think to do. Love would be the answer, a solution into which I’d dive and emerge blinking and new.
Matt didn’t want me doing the ad once he learned I’d be roller-skating in a bikini. ‘I don’t want everyone thinking I’m dating a slut,’ he said.
I’d thought living near Coney Island would be fun, but there was nothing festive about my neighbourhood.
On the way home, I picked up a magazine at a newsstand and flicked through until the owner told me he wasn’t a fucking library. He kept yelling ‘Keep it moving!’ until I was halfway down the street.
My roommate wasn’t home. Every time she saw me, she’d ask about my career like it was a huge joke. Her boyfriend was thirty-six and ‘in recovery’: he’d attend meetings for a week, then blow the allowance his father still gave him and show up at our place looking like he wanted to eat something alive.
I started writing a text to my mother. She cried when I said I was moving, but she cried so often I didn’t take it personally. I’d promised to send money once I started making any – she’d been fired, again, when her boss realised she’d been drinking at work.
She called me a lot, often very late. I’d text the next day that I’d been sleeping, and she’d say she must have pocket dialled. It felt important for us to uphold the pretence.
I got into bed with the Marie Vogel literature, still wearing my sweater. When I’d mentioned the cold, my roommate said I’d need a space heater. ‘Aren’t those a fire hazard?’ I’d asked, but she said, ‘I guess? Whatever.’ I decided I’d buy one once I made a sale.
I could pretend this was an audition. I began: ‘I’d love to tell you about this revolutionary mascara. It literally binds to your lashes until you use the Magic Removal Fluid.’ I repeated it over and over, emphasising different words. After I had it, I moved on to skincare. ‘No one needs to know what you did last night – just apply this caffeine eye cream and you’ll have everyone fooled!’
Figuring my agent would find me work soon enough, I skimmed over the handbook’s guide to recruiting reps. The rest was part New Age feminism, part Fifties etiquette speak. In a time of turmoil, you are in a position of great power. With founder Marie Vogel as your guiding light, you can help women unlock their inner strength and beauty. Okay, I thought. That doesn’t sound so bad.
The next day, I decided to start in Chinatown. The first two addresses in my binder, nobody was home. The third had boards nailed over the door and a yellow X of crime tape. At noon I got hungry and bought soup dumplings, which I ate standing up while men in suits looked curiously at my legs. The dumplings exploded in my mouth, burning the skin on my tongue raw.
My feet already hurt; I’d never walked so much before moving here. Back home, Matt would give me rides in his truck or I’d borrow my mother’s Honda, before she lost her license. I’d tried scrubbing the calluses off my soles with my roommate’s fancy salt, which she accused me of eating.
I had more luck in Little Italy. The second bell I rang, a woman listed as Patricia Meyer answered and invited me in.
Her apartment was airless and warm. The cold had blued my hands, except where the case’s weight had striped them red and yellow. Patricia offered me a cup of coffee.
‘Thanks very much, ma’am,’ I said. The over-stewed coffee made my stomach twitch.
‘My pleasure, sweetie, have a seat. Can I get you a cookie to go with it?’
I shook my head. Her crushed velvet top matched the couch’s upholstery. I left the cup on a stack of Us Weeklysand perched on an armchair with the ancient imprint of someone else’s butt on the seat. I spun the story of Marie Vogel Cosmetics: set up by a housewife – just like her? I ventured, and she nodded, smiling – who’d wanted quality product at reasonable prices. (Storytelling is an ancient art, the handbook said, You need to captivate and delight.) ‘The mark-up would shock you,’ I said earnestly, almost believing myself, ‘Drugstore lipsticks use cheap ingredients and sell for fifteen dollars apiece. Marie’s lipsticks are made with refined shea butters and concentrated pigments, for just twelve-fifty.’ I reached for the carry case and fumbled with the catch.
Patricia and I watched the compartments unroll onto the faded rug. ‘Isn’t that something,’ she said. ‘Sweetie, your accent – where are you from?’
My cheeks grew hot. ‘Florida,’ I said shyly.
‘Well! That’s really something. My son lives in Florida. Ponte Vedra, do you know it?’
‘Of course,’ I said, though I didn’t. ‘It’s meant to be very beautiful.’
‘Oh, it is, honey. I visit him every year. The water! The shrimp is to die for.’
I flashed a brilliant smile. ‘Then you’ll be needing sun protection. Marie Vogel’s Fountain of Youth Moisturiser has peptides and SPF fifteen.’ I unscrewed the cap from a sample tube. ‘May I?’ She held out a hand and I rubbed on some goop. ‘There. Hydration and protection.’ She lifted her hand and sniffed.
I felt as powerful as a raptor circling a mouse. ‘And for, ah, date nights, you’ll want makeup. Marie’s colour cosmetics are perfect for all ages.’ I was going off-script, but it sounded good. I opened a lipstick, but Patricia baulked at the sight of the scarlet bullet and murmured, ‘Oh, no, honey…’
I returned it quickly and took out a pearlescent pink. ‘Here, try this.’ I dabbed it onto her lips and lifted a mirror close so she couldn’t see how sallow she looked. ‘Beautiful.’
‘Now, honey, I know your tricks.’ But she was beaming, a huge smile that revealed a missing back molar. ‘You really think it suits me?’
‘With this and the Sunset Trio eyeshadow, you’ll be the talk of Ponte Vedra.’
By the time I left, it was getting dark; I’d been there far longer than the twenty minutes suggested by the handbook. Still, Patricia had bought a hundred dollars’ worth of product and given me a twenty tip. We weren’t supposed to accept tips (You are an entrepreneur), but nobody would know. ‘Really, you should be giving me a tip!’ Patricia had said, laughing and exposing her missing tooth. I laughed too, then dashed out in case she asked for it back.
It was amazing, the effect money could have. My body, which had been clenched like a fist, loosened and opened up. My blood felt shot through with gold. New York! I’d finally arrived.
At first, this was what it had felt like with Matt – a kind of invincibility, love, a force field protecting us from the rest of the world.
Knowing physical attraction alone wasn’t enough to sustain us, and having no real culture or beliefs, I cultivated an air of ironic detachment to make me seem intriguing, scorning everything with snide comments; by the time Matt saw through my act, it was too late to break character. He’d mete out small cruelties in front of my friends, saying I had a pretty face and a head full of air, or innocently asking after my mother when he knew what she was like. In return, I’d flirt with other men in plain view, let them brush their hands against my thighs and wrists. His manhood under attack, Matt would say I was begging to be slapped, but never followed through on his threats.
I thought being in a tumultuous relationship would at least be interesting, but our push and pull was exhausting. It was exhilarating, too, gave me bitter-tasting pleasure.
When the violinist on the A wandered to my seat, I proudly put a dollar in his cap. ‘This all you got, lady?’ he said, so loudly the other passengers stared.
My stomach gnawed with hunger on the way home. At a pizza place that proclaimed itself FAMILY-OWNED FOR 75 YEARS, I bought a square slice and ate it at the end of a table occupied by a loud Russian family. I got another, then a third: I couldn’t remember when I’d last been this full.
A guy in a polo the colours of the Italian flag was stuffing the Russian family’s napkins and paper plates into a garbage bag.
I made to toss my balled napkin, but he held out a hand. He had a condition, psoriasis maybe, the skin raw and peeling.
‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’ His Brooklyn accent was thick. ‘I can tell you ain’t from here. What brings a pretty girl like you to the city?’
‘I’m an actress.’ I hoped he wouldn’t notice the carry case.
‘I knew it, I was saying to my buddy Darryl, she has to be an actress or model or something. Anything I’d have seen?’
‘Probably not,’ I said, ‘But I have some things coming up.’
‘I’ll bet you do.’ He grinned to reveal crooked teeth. ‘I said to Darryl, that girl, she’s surely going places.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, rising.
‘A real pleasure to meet you. I’m Jeff.’ He held out his hand, a smear of oil sheening the pink skin.
I swallowed my revulsion and shook it.
He winked. ‘Come back any time.’
Back in the apartment, I looked at Matt’s Facebook page, a daily habit of mine. He’d posted about a football game three days ago and that was it.
Once I’d asked what he thought of moving. ‘Where to?’ he said, as if no place could possibly improve on our shitty town.
‘I don’t know. Somewhere without alligators?’ Storm season had begun; a gator had been found in a drain two towns over. The humidity was so thick and close it was like someone breathing on your neck.
‘I kinda like the gators,’ he said, and cracked another beer.
When I told Matt I was leaving, a strange look came over his face. I felt an electric thrill as he advanced, taller than ever, held his hands up in the air – and nothing. It made me feel worse than if he’d hit me, like I was too ridiculous to even bother with.
Marie Vogel is perfect for the modern woman who wants to create additional income around her busy schedule. My agent wasn’t picking up, so I decided to pay her a visit. There was an address in my binder a couple of blocks away from her office on East 75th and Third; I could drop in and say I’d been in the neighbourhood, which wasn’t exactly untrue.
Going over the Manhattan Bridge, a familiar thickness rose in my throat, the sentimental high I always felt crossing bodies of water: a sense that all the petals of the world were opening up around me. I took a photo.
As I rang the bell with its peeling ELAINE SMITH: TALENT REPRESENTATION sticker, I remembered my excitement when she first called and said I looked like Esther Williams, how I’d thought the world had something in store for me after all. Nobody answered and I walked away.
Back home, I’d never noticed architecture; houses were either new and garish, or a few decades old and already decrepit. Now, I admired the brownstones; their facades made me think of old leather-bound books. When I rang, a maid opened the door, narrowed her eyes, and sighed when she saw my carry case. ‘Sarah!’ she called. In the hallway I breathed in an aged wood scent and tried not to think of my walk-up, its stairwell musty with the odour of dead mice.
Sarah had long hair and a vague smile and wore a kimono robe that probably cost more than my entire outfit – a skirt and blouse that in the right light looked like silk. My legs were mottled purple with cold. My pumps clacked against the hardwood floors, but I kept them on in case my feet smelled.
‘Come, come.’ She wafted into a living room that looked like the inside of a jewel box. My case seemed horribly plastic against her Oriental rug. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ She was either British or pretending to be.
‘Um, sure.’
The maid brought in a tray with two glasses of something clear and cold, garnished with what looked like cocktail onions. I’d thought Sarah had meant coffee.
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Violet.’ I was trying out something better suited to an actress. The maid sneered at me and left.
‘Violet. How pretty.’ She sighed wistfully and sank into a deep armchair.
‘I’m, ah, an executive at luxury cosmetics brand Marie Vogel,’ I said, glad I’d remembered to say ‘executive’ and not ‘rep’. (Our executives should feel inspired to use the language of the boardroom.) ‘I’d love to show you our latest products, with new colours for the holidays.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘Ah! Nothing like a Gibson before lunch.’
It tasted like lighter fluid but I was grateful for the onion as I hadn’t had breakfast. My hands shook as I unrolled the carry case. If I spilled anything on the rug, what would it cost to replace? A thousand dollars? More?
‘Perhaps you’d like to see our latest serums?’ She must have been in her forties, at least, but her skin was preternaturally smooth, poreless.
‘I’d love to. But what’s the rush? Tell me about yourself, Violet. What brings you to New York?’ She giggled and melted deeper into the armchair. I worried she’d spill her Gibson, but the glass was nearly empty.
(The art of conversation is a fine balance between talking and listening.) I explained I had started working as a rep – executive – in between acting jobs.
‘An actress!’ She brought her palms together. ‘Anything I’d have seen?’
I didn’t want to mention the ad around the rugs and china. ‘Probably not – mostly arthouse stuff.’
‘How delightful. I dabbled in theatre myself, at Bennington.’
‘Bennington?’
‘Oh, Bennington, there’s no place like it.’ I smiled as she described her student theatre, how the campus gleamed like a frosted cake in the snow.
(Always bring the conversation back to the product.) ‘We have a new palette, Ice Sculpture, with an amazing nine shades.’ I prodded an applicator into the pans; a cloud of eyeshadow puffed into the air and descended in silvery motes onto the rug. ‘May I?’
She let me brush it on, then grabbed the mirror. ‘Oh dear, no. I’m more the classic neutrals type.’ I handed her a cotton ball soaked in Magic Removal Fluid, which streaked the silver without completely taking it off.
I coughed. ‘Can I use your…?’
A frown flitted across her placid face, so brief I almost missed it. ‘End of the hallway.’
I pissed into the gleaming toilet – I needed to drink more water – and opened the mirrored cabinet without washing my hands. Sïsley and Lancôme products and prescription bottles lined the shelves – painkillers, tranqs, muscle relaxants. I shook out some Klonopin and Ambien capsules and stuffed them into my bra. In the mirror I stared at the face that made people call me ‘honey’ and ‘sweetie’ and other sugared things, brushed the eyelashes with a fingertip and patted the cheeks.
When I came back, Sarah was asleep on the couch. She’d opened some new stock, rendering it worthless. Quietly I opened trinket boxes in search of cash, snatched two twenties, and left before the maid could catch me.
When I reached the park I crumpled onto the grass. A woman walking past glanced at the pink case and smiled shyly. I smiled back with all my teeth. It was easier than screaming.
A guy in a tattered windcheater was jerking off outside the subway. ‘Hey, hot stuff!’ he called. He nodded towards his uncircumcised dick as it flapped absurdly out of his pants. ‘Hey baby, want a piece of this?’ I hurried downstairs as fast as I could and stared straight ahead the whole way home.
My roommate’s bedroom was rank with sour laundry and the cat-piss stink of her boyfriend’s methamphetamine. I grabbed her space heater and shut the door quickly.
Sometimes I’d call Matt and press cancel when he picked up, but this time when he asked, ‘Is that you?’ I said, ‘Yeah. Hi.’
‘How’s New York?’
‘Oh, you know. Good. Cold. What’s new?’
‘The usual. How’s the acting career?’ The way he said it reminded me of my roommate.
‘Great. Actually, I have an audition tomorrow. I should probably get to bed soon.’
‘Oh, yeah? What’s it for?’
‘A movie.’ I cast about for something. ‘About Esther Williams.’
‘I thought you couldn’t swim?’
‘I can swim,’ I said, wondering what that had to do with anything. ‘I can swim just fine.’
‘You can’t dive. I’ve seen you, you just flop.’
‘So what? It’s a movie, not the Olympics.’
‘Okay, okay.’
The heater was emitting a chalky dust that made me cough.
‘You alright there?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You coming back for the holidays?’
‘Sure,’ I said, though I didn’t know where the money would come from.
‘Guess I’ll see you then.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t freeze out there.’ This was his idea of a joke.
‘I won’t.’
‘See you soon.’
‘See you.’
A terrible smell filled the room. The space heater had melted a corner of the carry case and the rug was dotted with pink plastic drips like strawberry ice-cream. After picking off what I could, I watched the Seinfeld episode where Jerry can’t remember his girlfriend’s name, and didn’t cry, which felt like progress.
The handbook advised against door-to-door sales at the weekend. (Why not host a makeover party?)
It was quiet on the boardwalk, a few Hassidic families and couples eating hotdogs here and there. The closed rides had a depressing, skeletal look, the ribs of the rollercoaster poking into the grey sky. A man with ratty dreads asked if I liked to party, then said I ought to crack a smile. I looked up airline tickets on my phone: the cheapest were two hundred each way.
A group of underdressed girls sashayed past, clutching cups of beer. One of them said something, looking straight at me, and the others laughed maniacally. ‘What?’ I said, but they’d moved on.
I had girlfriends back home, Emma and Laurie and Madison. Emma’s husband was the dumbest person I’d ever met. I’d said that once, to Madison and Laurie, that he was so stupid it had to be medical, and they’d laughed, but afterwards Emma acted cold and I knew they’d told her.
I hadn’t had sex since leaving Florida. The last time had been awful, Matt hammering away vengefully. Still, being touched might be nice.
I stared at my phone’s cracked screen, willing him to contact me. When he didn’t, I sent a message asking if he’d like to visit.
He replied within seconds: Too cold for me. See you at Thanksgiving.
The pizza didn’t taste so good this time. Jeff the bus boy passed my table again and again, asking was I okay, did I need anything. I realised I could take him home, let him fuck me, and tell Matt, make him so furious he’d get on the next plane and hit me for real this time.
I spent the rest of the weekend cloudy with Sarah’s pills. My roommate and her boyfriend had torturously lengthy sex in her room and walked around the apartment in towels, eating takeout from containers, their pupils dilated to huge depthless coins.
On Monday I stole a sheepskin jacket my roommate had left on the couch and headed to Greenpoint.
In a diner, I thought about calling my mother, then posted the picture I’d taken going over the bridge. I’d posted dozens of them since coming here. I’m making it, every photo of the Empire State Building or Bergdorf’s said. I’ve arrived. Madison and Laurie liked the photo.
The waitress nodded at my carry case as she poured coffee. ‘Marie Vogel?’
‘You know it?’
‘Got a couple of girlfriends who sell that stuff on Facebook.’
The coffee was burning hot and tasteless. ‘It’s great! Really high quality.’
‘Oh, hon, you won’t get a sale out of me today, but bless you for trying. What’ll it be?’
I ordered pancakes, wolfed them down, and left a dollar tip.
Be considerate and helpful! I had a busy day: Donna made me hold her baby for twenty minutes while she screamed down the phone. Mati, who was white and wore a bindi, explained why vaccinations were evil and bought a single Lip Tint. Rebecca had the posture of someone who’d been tall from a young age and had spent her life trying to hide it; I was not proud of the tactics I used on her.
The binder listed a Lisa Saunders on Jewel Street. A promising street name, I thought; one more sale, then I could go to Park Slope, where the stay-at-home mothers were sitting ducks. Maybe I’d even recruit a couple of reps, women who wanted a side-hustle as their husbands made real money.
I rang the bell and introduced myself. Nobody said anything, just buzzed me in.
A man in a loose-fitting suit opened the door. ‘Hello there.’
‘Hello, I’m with Marie Vogel Cosmetics.’ I thumbed through the binder. ‘Is this Lisa Saunders’s home?’
‘It is.’ He smiled toothlessly. ‘I’m her husband. She’ll be back any minute – would you like to wait inside?’ (Husbands love wives to look their best… but don’t want them spending their hard-earned money! Keep the mystery alive: if the husband’s home, come back another time.)
From the hallway I could see into the apartment – dated, but clean. I could wait five minutes; if Lisa was flush, I’d get lunch from the pierogi place across the street.
‘Come in, that case must be heavy.’ He continued smiling. His thin grey hair was stiff: he must have sprayed it into place.
The couch was covered in some shiny plastic membrane that creaked and emitted a disinfectant odour. Lisa’s husband’s face was so close I could smell the soup on his breath, count individual capillaries in his watery eyes. He rested a hand on my knee, then my thigh, and when I put up no resistance, frozen with fear or something like it, he dragged it up my skirt and into my underwear. I felt hollow as if my insides had been scooped out, and distant, like I was watching myself from across the room.
When I turned fifteen, my mother gave me a handheld alarm whose unearthly shrieks terrified me so much I buried it in a drawer. And Matt’s threats of violence had always been empty, however much I’d tormented him.
I’d always thought when it happened, it would be in some deserted lot or empty park. I’d imagined it in detail: a stranger, darkness, screaming. Rescue.
That was what happened in movies. This was a dry hand probing in my underwear; smell of disinfectant; watery eyes that never seemed to blink.
Coming back to myself, I dashed to the door, carry case handle sliding around my sweaty hand; downstairs, don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall; out, out; across the street, kit banging against my legs; running two blocks, three, four; narrowly avoiding a collision with an elderly woman. I stopped to catch my breath. Under the sheepskin I was trembling and wet.
‘Hey, you alright?’ A woman in workout gear was eyeing me.
I nodded, lungs burning. ‘Fine,’ I gasped.
She touched my shoulder. ‘Anyone you can call to come pick you up?’
I smiled and she seemed relieved. I would go home, take a pill, and sleep until morning.
‘Alright, well, if you’re sure you’re okay.’
I had three missed calls from my agent.
‘Hello?’ My mouth was dry.
‘You need to pick up when I call you.’
‘Sorry, I was – I had to—’
‘No matter. Can you get to the Village by one?’
It was twelve-thirty. ‘I think so.’
The role was a bit part in a pilot. She gave me an address near Second Avenue.
I unrolled my kit onto the floor of the G and applied makeup, feeling my way around my face. By the time I found the building it was twelve past one. My heart was still going fast, my eyes felt raw and scratchy. A woman opened the door with a keycard; I slipped in behind and followed her upstairs. ‘Is this the casting?’ I asked.
‘Room Six. Wait till you’re called.’ She looked at me and frowned. ‘Bathroom’s at the end of the hallway.’
I thanked her but she didn’t return my smile.
In the bathroom mirror, in place of my usual face, I saw puffed up eyes, angry and red. I pressed my lower lip, swollen like proven dough, and watched the fingertip sink in. I was grotesque, allergic. What was I doing at this audition, in this city?
My name sounded out twice as I ran back down the hallway, then, ‘No-show! Next one, we’re already behind.’
A text from my agent: I heard you didn’t show. What happened?
I turned my phone off and walked, a terrible fleshy orange at the corners of my vision.
A child stared. When I attempted a smile, my lip cracked; something wet seeped from it and hardened.
I looked up at the godless white sky. The light hurt my eyes, but I kept my face pointed upwards until someone nearly knocked me down and barked, ‘Keep it moving, lady!’
Keep it moving, keep it moving. I don’t know why I stuck around, why I left home for a place where people see my smile and want to strip me for parts. But it’s better not to overthink things – that’s what got me here in the first place.
Last week, on the first real day of spring, I finally let Jeff take me out. We ate Mexican food and drank strong mixed drinks and when he asked how the acting was going, I said I was pivoting my career.
I told him how I spent my days. Get up – not too early – and pack my case with the latest products. Put on an outfit laid out the previous evening. (Grooming can make all the difference between a good impression and a great one.) Sometimes I’d split a route with my new reps, though lately I’d preferred going alone. (When you’re one of Marie Vogel’s ladies, you’re part of a family.)
He was impressed. Maybe he’d have found anything I did glamorous. I brushed it off, but I had to admit there was something magical about it: on days I woke up cold and alone, I could wander the city, and people would let me into their homes, even if they weren’t expecting anyone, and pass the time talking with a perfect stranger.