The perfect sheets, the chilly rooms: they were stupid things, taken one by one, but all together they were a convincing substitute for a life.

It had never occurred to her—it already felt enough like a setup. And why would she have wanted evidence, why would she have wanted to see herself, watch her body move, hear her voice gone to some unnatural, faraway pitch?

Younger men had to make everything mean something, had to turn every choice and preference into a referendum on their personality.

Over the course of the dinner, Alex lulled herself into a trance state, the boredom almost like a drug, something you could lean into, gorge yourself on.

How to allude to her own desires as if they were shared desires. Somewhere, deep in their brains, the synapses fired, chugging along in the direction she set out for them. People were relieved, grateful to click in to something bigger, easier.

That was the point of Alex—to offer up no friction whatsoever.

Only their little dogs, blinking from their laps, seemed real: they were the women’s souls, Alex decided, tiny souls trotting behind them on a leash.

system that existed only because everyone believed they were among people like themselves.