For Imogen, everything about the “unusual” (read: inappropriate) dynamic between Charlie and Janelle suddenly hit her like a ton of bricks when he seemed so eager to wipe away the skid marks Janelle had left behind in her toilet. They had been staying at Janelle’s apartment over the weekend, in from Beacon to “visit the city.” As it turned out, Charlie was one of those people who desperately missed New York once he left it—even though it had been his decision to leave in the first place. Imogen didn’t much care either way where they lived, so long as their “abode” was something she could make into her fortress, a place where she could “nest,” to use a somewhat gross and sexist bird metaphor. She had only ended up living in Lower Manhattan in the first place because she had been inveigled by a family friend to housesit while he was away on business in London for two months.

Imogen had been personally asked by John because she lived close enough to do it, still residing at her parents’ in Greenwich while driving fifteen minutes to Stamford’s UConn campus to pursue her major in Digital Media & Design. Not exactly a subject she was “in love” with, but probably just about the only “art” medium left that might still pay something. Even though both of her parents tried desperately to talk her out of it. Said she would be better off opting for a major like Computer Science or Financial Technology. Neither one seemed to factor in that she 1) had no aptitude for such things and 2) might die inside completely if she were to go down such a path.

In any case, it seemed that John was aware of some looming existential crisis within Imogen now that she had just graduated, and he suggested that, while “minding” his apartment, she might take the opportunity to look for jobs and go on interviews in her field. It wasn’t a bad offer. John owned a penthouse apartment in Tribeca, the kind with an elevator that opened right into the space. And it was every girl’s dream, wasn’t it? To be offered her own apartment in New York, no strings attached? Of course, the strings that were attached to the offer would reveal themselves later, after John returned. But before then, Imogen did start to have nothing but warm feelings toward him as she commenced her job search. One that proved to be surprisingly fruitful. Imogen had no idea just how much youth was the hottest commodity of all in New York when looking for work.

Naturally, just because They were eager to hire you didn’t mean They were going to pay you well, too. Which was to be expected, for there’s nothing that corporations love more than to exploit young labor. The younger the better, in fact. Which is why the U.S. still “de facto” used it through other countries like Bangladesh, India and Mexico. In New York, however, an early twenty-something would have to suffice, to satisfy that craving. And oh, how Imogen went out of her way to satisfy it during those first years of working at an e-commerce fashion startup called Pretty Baby. Where the only thing more basic than the name was the clothing they hawked.

Even so, Imogen did what she could to make it look “appealing,” knowing all along that she would use her “creative talent” for the benefit of capitalism. And just as she started the job, John returned from London, eager to take her out for “celebratory” drinks at The Dead Rabbit, probably presuming himself to be endlessly cool for choosing to take her there. When Imogen realized too late into the “celebration” that what John was actually trying to do was take her on a date, she tried to be as off-putting as possible. Mainly by ordering a lot of “hearty” foods, including a Scotch egg, instead of drinks. Surely that would ruin his festive spirit, she told herself. Instead, it only seemed to “charm” him all the more, especially when he saw the chance to “romantically” wipe away some of the yolk that had gotten onto her lip. It made her want to vomit onto his thousand-something-dollar suit right there. This was fucking John. He had been friends with her parents ever since they were in college. He had seen Imogen in diapers, in braces—he was practically a second father. So what the fuck was this? Where did he get the grotesque gall to have sexual designs on her? It was enough to make Imogen sick. And suddenly, she was, running out of The Dead Rabbit without saying anything and then reserving her barf for the sidewalk instead of for his suit as she would have liked. Though there was another man whose suit caught some of it, since, at exactly that moment, Charlie happened to be walking by, catching some of the “splatter” on his pants.

Rather than being repulsed, however, Charlie appeared genuinely concerned for her well-being, unhesitatingly getting closer to ask if she was okay despite the risk of getting further, let’s say, sprayed. As Imogen kept violently retching, she nodded that she was fine. Charlie could see that she obviously wasn’t and offered to take her back to his nearby apartment so that she could have a glass of water and collect herself. Maybe it was because her defenses were down due to her weakened physical state or maybe she just didn’t care what happened to her anymore, but, for whatever reason, she took Charlie up on his offer. And up until recently, she thought it was the best whimsical decision she had ever made. That is, before she understood just how odd, how inappropriate Charlie’s relationship with his long-time friend, Janelle, was. A thought that had already occurred to her at the outset of dating Charlie, who was not only quick to introduce Janelle, but to also add that her opinion was almost as important (if not more so) to him that his parents’. Even though Imogen was initially wary of this statement and their closeness, Janelle had the ability to effortlessly win people over—particularly Charlie’s girlfriends (for this wasn’t her first time at the “wooing his romantic interests” rodeo). And so, Imogen was won, adopting Janelle as if they had been friends before Charlie ever came into the picture.

Looking back on it now, Imogen could see that it was all a tactical maneuver on Janelle’s part. A bid to lead her into a false sense of security as part of her long game. Make her feel like she was “close,” “indispensable.” That Janelle would never do anything to betray her newfound “bestie.” Well, the only bestie she really had was Charlie. And it was apparent she had wanted him to be more than “just” that for quite some time, lying in wait. Knowing goddamn well what she was doing. Including inviting Imogen and Charlie down for the weekend to stay with her. She promised she would mostly make herself “scarce” but, thus far, that hadn’t really been the case. Until she decided to take a huge shit on Saturday morning and then run out for pastries from Michaeli, a bid to prove both her “in the know-ness” with the neighborhood and the lengths her “hospitality” could go. But Imogen didn’t find leaving skid marks—raised and clumpy—in the toilet to be hospitable at all. Saying as much when she went into the bathroom to use it and then walked right out to announce what she had seen to Charlie.

Charlie shrugged his shoulders and said, “It happens.”

That’s when Imogen knew she was dealing with someone completely in a trance when it came to Janelle. “I think you mean shit happens, right?”

“Ha. Ha. What’s the big deal? It’s her apartment, she has a right.”

“I just would’ve thought with her whole show about being ‘the hostess with the mostest,’ something like that might not happen.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “You know what Imogen? If you wanna be so fucking precious about the whole thing, I’ll go in there and scrub them away myself.”

“Ew. Charlie, that’s fucking gross. You don’t need to that. Besides, she should know what she did.”

“Like I said: it’s not a big deal.”

Imogen glared at him then, seeing him as if for the first time. What a sycophantic, scared little boy he was. No wonder he had approached her when she was throwing up the first time they met. He didn’t want to be deemed a “bad man.” To have ignored her would have been “unaccommodating” toward another human being. The more she thought it about it, it wasn’t romantic—it was pathetic. As he walked toward the bathroom to scrub his “friend’s” shit, she knew in that instant that she would never feel the same way about him. That Janelle had won (for a start, because there’s no way that Charlie would ever so gleefully offer to clean up her shit stains—what made Janelle worthy of that kind of intimacy but not Imogen?). And that, ultimately, Charlie was really no better than John. They were both men with lurking ulterior motives that were liable to spring out at you when you least expected it, after years of believing that you could trust them, feel safe with them. Like they wouldn’t totally gut-punch you out of nowhere. In fact, Imogen reckoned she might as well go over to John’s now and offer herself up to him, never mind that she had refused to speak to him since that night at The Dead Rabbit.

That was of no consequence to Imogen now. And she doubted John would really care about the “slight” anymore so long as she came “crawling back.” Cozying up to John again would drive Charlie crazy, maybe make him finally appreciate what he had. But more than being jealous of John “taking” her, Charlie would be jealous of the idea that Imogen could easily come right back to New York, because John would have no problem letting her move in. Never mind the “logistics” of having to tell Imogen’s parents about it. They would worry about that later.

As these fantasies flashed through Imogen’s mind, she could hear Charlie scrubbing the toilet, interrupting her train of perverse thought. And reminding her to walk right out the door and let Janelle offer her “pastry” up to Charlie in private. She had no need to stick around and watch. Maybe they could even shit it out together later and create a fresh set of skids for Charlie to exultantly clean.