My grandmother’s living room is beautiful and sad. Her walls are festooned with portraits she painted throughout her life, when she could still hold a paintbrush for hours, when my grandfather would sit and do the crossword in the other room. Even though I sit in this turquoise chair every week, I still feel the weight of my grandpa’s absence in it. The only people that sit in it now are me or my grandma, when she draws with fine tip pens, or tries to figure out how to use her cell phone.

Sitting around her coffee table littered in doilies and grandchild photos, I take yet another tiny cookie from the plate on the coffee table, praying that my aunt and my grandma will NOT ask me about my love life.

"So, do you have a boyfriend?" My grandmother asks.

My grandmother is the most stylish you can find in today's grandma market: she is thinner than me, taller than me, and only wears clothes that fit perfectly. Her coif of short hair enables her to pull off the most extravagant of hats with effortless chic. Sitting in my chair while scarfing down cookies, I look down at my torn pantyhose, my right boot's broken zipper, and my green sweater, pooching at the belly, also with quiet moth holes in one sleeve. If she's Chanel, then I'm Target.

I snatch another cookie from the coffee table, trying to land back on the chair. "Um, no. Not really." Suddenly I'm very busy with chewing.

She nods slowly, her mouth a straight line. "Well, you'll meet someone."

"Yeah, here's hoping." I'm surprised to hear that come out of my mouth.

"Are you still working at, well, what was the name of your restaurant again, dear?"

This is a loaded question. It's not just that my grandmother "conveniently" can't remember the stupid name of the restaurant I work at, it's that she, the ex-head of the Portland Opera Board, the interior decorator for the mayor, and an old-world East Coast Jew raised in the Depression can't fathom how a college-educated woman, let alone of her own lineage, would subject themselves to a job who's most frequent question is: "Fries or tater tots?"

"Yes, I'm still working there. But I've been looking for something else." Half-true.

"Have you contacted my friend yet?" My aunt pipes in. Aunt Sharon is the eldest of three, and acts as the vice-matriarch, the diligent daughter, and the all-seeing aunt. She, too, has hosted more than a soiree or two in her day. Though she technically became a housewife after pumping out a couple kids with an accomplished oncologist, you'd never know, as she's always on the board of directors for the latest trending non-profits. She also knows I have not contacted her friend yet.

"Darren is so knowledgeable, he could surely get you in touch with someone at the Lewis and Clark psychology department. That could also help you get into grad school."

I nod. "Yeah, but I majored in fine art, and failed my freshman year psychology class, so I'm not sure I'd qualify."

The air suddenly feels brimming with silence.

After seemingly forty years of quiet and exchanged looks between aunt and g-ma, I say, "How about these, cookies, eh? What is this, mint?"

The feeling of his tongue slithering down my ear feels somewhere between awful and compelling. Then he starts licking my neck.

"Okay, okay. That's good," I say.

He pulls away, then lays on his back. After a few moments, he leans over and snatches his phone from the floor on his side of my bed, scrolling through Facebook. The room has a strange hum to it, like it's still reeling from the past half hour of sweat beads and moans. It's collecting all of the moments where we felt connected; so fleeting, like a match lighting before it evades, and we're left wondering if it ever happened at all.

"How was your grandma's?" He asks. I'm always surprised when he seems interested in my life.

"It was....normal. What did you do today?"

"I almost got a job." He says this while still scanning his phone.

"Oh! What do you mean, 'almost'?"

He runs his hand through his hair. "Well, I was supposed to get this construction job, and the guy was totally ready to give it to me, but then a bunch of guys that used to work for the company came back, and-"

I prop myself up on my right elbow, to look at him while he talks. I wish I were interested in what he had to say; I wish he and I were sharing laughs, and enjoying that split second where I could finally be on the same page with someone, perfectly synchronized, landing in each other's smiles. As he talks about a couple of other job leads and this one might really go somewhere, but he's in no rush because he actually sort of likes being on unemployment, I hear my phone go off on my bedside table.

I say "excuse me" to Todd, but I'm not sure that he notices. I unlock my phone and see a text from Danny- my chest seizes. It says, "We need to talk."