It didn’t look like anything he’d seen before. He didn’t consider himself a connoisseur, but he wanted to be one, and envied those that spent bunches of money on home set-ups. He put in the small spoon and stirred, slowly pouring in the cream, and it made a sweet swirl that would look perfect on Tumblr or Instagram with a carefully-selected filter. He was transfixed.

“Are you going to drink it or just stare it?” He had forgotten Abby was there. He slightly jolted, breaking up the swirl, and looked at her. It was their third date.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, a little unconvincingly, “It just looks amazing. I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.”

She had suggested it earlier, this out-of-the-way, hipster-hoarding coffee shop right downtown. The staff were all girls in their early twenties, Deschanellites, their big eyes making you implicitly trust their recommendations. The menu was small, but it seemed like the kind of place that would have plenty of off-menu possibilities. A small Christmas tree sat in the corner, seemingly nodding its head at materialism but not participating too much. There was a poster for Vertigo behind the counter.

Graham liked Abby. They’d met in his literary theory class, a French girl who seemed to have an endless supply of fashionable scarves and cardigans. She spoke with an accent that shied on heavy, and was eager to control the conversation, which he appreciated. He liked her accent, her intelligence, her knowledge of world cultures, her taste in music, her flirtatious teasing, her small butt, her swamp green eyes.

“My friend Brett told me about it. He’s friends with Ben Gibbard and this is apparently his favourite spot in the city,” she said.

“Ben Gibbard? I don’t believe you.”

“I’m just telling you what he told me. Besides, you didn’t believe me when I told you I made out with Julian Casablancas, either. You just don’t like the idea of people having more fun than you.”

This was somewhat true. He was usually content to stay in and watch some foreign film, and Abby did not seem like the kind of girl who would rather watch a movie than go to a club. There was always a balance to be found.

“You’re right. He’s probably telling the truth, who knows. Anyway, what do you want to do? We could just hangout at my place,” he suggested. He hoped she would agree. His roommates were out of town, so they’d have the place to themselves.

“I was thinking we could go to that party instead,” she said. “My friend Karlie’s.” Does every girl have a friend named Karlie? “It should be fun. Don’t give me that look.”

They went to the party.

Sufjan Stevens was blasting from the speakers, so it was clear what kind of party this was when someone is singing about identifying with John Wayne Gacy. Everyone was drinking red wine and talking about Lena Dunham. The apartment was well-furnished, though it all looked like it was from IKEA. There was a gargoyle statue at the entrance, and Graham was unsure of whether it was ironic or not. He spoke with a couple of bearded guys, one of whom was dating Karlie until recently and the other was her seemingly platonic roommate.

“All I’m saying is that you can’t just apply Marx to any movement that claims to be revolutionary,” the ex said.

“That doesn’t make any sense, Rich. If Marx was all about changing the world and some group has the same philosophy, how are they not Marxist?”

“Okay, so the label means nothing, then. Feminists? Marxist. Civil rights? Marxist. The KKK? Marxist.”

“Oh, come on, asshole.”

Graham walked away to find Abby, who had run off immediately with Karlie upon arrival. He avoided eye contact so he wouldn’t have to be brought into another dead-end pseudo-intellectual conversation. Abby didn’t act like her friends, really, but she seemed to find comfort in them. He found her in the kitchen, sipping a glass as Karlie, dressed in a blood red top and a schoolgirl skirt, whispered something in her ear.

“Graham! Come here. This is Karlie.” Karlie beamed at him as if they’d known each other for years and this was some kind of reunion. She even hugged him.

“Nice to meet you. So how do you two know each other?” he asked. Karlie giggled.

“We’ve been friends since kindergarten. She’s told me all about you. You’re in advertising?” All about him? This was their third date, what could that even mean? There was something a little off about Karlie.

Later, only Karlie, Abby, her roommate and Graham remained. They were sitting together in the living room, Tom Waits quietly wailing from the record player and the last drops of wine being poured. The conversation had died, something about a punk band that was coming next month. Suddenly, Karlie got up and sat next to Graham.

“So, Graham. I’m a year behind you in advertising. Abby was telling me how you aced everything and would probably maybe be into letting me look at your assignments? Not to copy, you know, just to look at…” So this was it. Very quickly Graham felt used.

“I don’t really feel comfortable with that, honestly,” Graham said. Abby shot him a look, and he shrugged in return. Karlie looked at Abby, then back at Graham, not-so-subtly putting on puppy-dog eyes.

“Well, I mean, Abby said you were a really nice guy, so I just thought…” She trailed off again. Graham couldn’t believe Abby would trap him like this. He looked at her and she looked disappointed. He excused himself as politely as he could and walked out, feeling a little ridiculous as he rushed down the stairs and out onto the street. It was past midnight.

He heard steps behind him, so he turned around. It was Abby.

“What the hell?” she asked.

“Why would you tell her I’d let her cheat with my stuff? You don’t ‘just look at’ ad assignments, she would just have all the answers and she knows that. That wasn’t cool, Abby.”

“Excuse me for thinking you’d want to help my friend out! She’s been struggling and I just thought, since you did so well, that you wouldn’t mind…”

“I mind, I’m sorry. Do you even actually like me? What are we doing?”

She was quiet for a moment.