Social Glass

In the apartment the silence feels expensive. Empty and expensive. Dakota stands at the island counting the messages she hasn't answered, the likes she pretends don't touch her. Zazie watches from the sofa, bare legs tucked under her, pretending not to watch. She lands the first blow without looking up. "It's funny how many followers you have and still can't stay in your own body for more than an hour." Dakota looks up slow. Heat under the skin, never the kind that shows in pictures. "At least when people stare, they pay. What do you pay for staring, exactly?" Zazie moves toward her like she always does—too close too fast—and the argument escalates the way it always does, teeth bared behind polite words. They pass insults like cigarettes: beauty is a job, beauty is a sickness, beauty makes people invisible by trying too hard to be visible. Dakota throws harder. Zazie answers harder. Phones ring on silent; neither checks. Later the accusation appears without warning. Someone rifled her accounts from the bedroom router. Logs don't lie. Zazie is the only one who had time and keys. "Tell me you didn't," Dakota says, already knowing. "I never had anything else to ruin," Zazie answers. The air between them snaps. Dakota shoves first. Zazie catches her wrist and holds it against the marble until it burns. Then they are kissing like punishment, mouths bruising, Dakota's perfect filter cracking under the scrape of teeth. Zazie's hands drag up smooth thighs, rucking the silk dress until fabric tears at the seam. Dakota answers with nails down a narrow back, drawing welts that camera can't frame. They fuck in pieces: first bent over the island where Dakota counts followers, then in the doorway where light from the hallway catches wet skin. Dakota comes with her head tipped back against a cabinet door, soft curses breaking into open moans. Zazie keeps her mouth between her legs after the tremor, tongue slow and deliberate, refusing mercy until Dakota's legs shake again. When it's Zazie's turn she rides Dakota's thigh hard, grinding until slick stains the silk and she bites her own forearm to stay quiet. Morning arrives gray through the blinds. Dakota's phone sits dark. The accounts have been scrubbed—every post deleted except one: an untagged close-up of two hands laced across the marble, uncurated, unnamed, and ordinary. Neither of them reaches to post it again.