Fucking | The Babysitter

At 8:00 PM, Chloe stood in the Harts’ living room, barefoot on their Persian rug, wearing Mrs. Hartwell’s cashmere throw like a ceremonial robe. She had the surround sound on low—just enough to feel the bass in her ribs. She’d selected The Lost City , a dumb, glossy adventure movie that cost $20 million to make and required zero brain cells. In her left hand: a glass of the dad’s limited-release Hazy IPA. In her right: the remote.

She walked home through the quiet, leafy suburb, the fifty crumpled in her pocket next to her student ID. She felt a strange, hollow richness. For four hours, she had lived a life of heated floors, artisanal beer, and $180 eye cream. She had watched what she wanted, eaten what she wanted, and pretended, just for a little while, that she was someone with a 401(k) and a backup bathroom. fucking the babysitter

She wasn’t a babysitter. She was a curator of borrowed comfort. At 8:00 PM, Chloe stood in the Harts’