Agent Provocateur by Cassandra Spencer

I’m at Madam’s Organ with Evvie and Andi, surrounded by a bunch of lanyard-wearing interns when the news breaks. Evvie yells over the music. “The Senate scheduled a vote tomorrow that includes a ban on federal funding to ‘any institution providing gender-affirming care’”.  

“I don’t get it” Andi yells back, playing with the straw in her drink. 

“They’re banning our shit. It’s the Hyde Amendment for HRT and shit.” I say in her ear. She jerks back her head, furrows her nose and shakes her head once.

“They can’t!” 

“They are.”

“Well, it’s not for sure,” Evvie says, “ A bunch of Democrats in the Senate would have to vote for the bill because of the filibuster.”

I can’t stop myself from snorting. 

“What?” Evvie looks at me.

“Girl, they’re not gonna shut down the government for the trannies.” I toss my hand out to the side as if it’s a joke. 

Evvie rolls her eyes. “You don’t know that.” She’s dyed her hair orange for the summer, and is wearing it up in a bun jammed full with tiny cocktail umbrellas she’s been collecting all night.

“Sure I do.” I don’t know why she’s being obtuse about this.

“I’m just saying, no one knows what’s happening anymore. I’d rather not believe that we’re about to run into a brick wall until we actually do, you know?” She says with a glare and looks back down at her phone to keep reading the article. 

My phone buzzes in my pocket with a notification from Signal.

“Sorry for the short notice, but are you free at 11?” 

I drop my hands to my hips and throw back my head. The last thing I want to do is go home and shave my legs.

“I’m out with friends.”

Dots, then nothing.

More dots.

“I have a very particular client and his usual girl isn’t available. Will pay double your rate.”

Very particular. Chaser. Of course. I wonder if she asked me second or third out of the three trans girls she has on call. I take a second to decide between $2,500 and shaving my legs. When I started hooking, the plan was to do it until the next thing came along. After three months of making more money than I ever did writing policy briefs and  fielding phone calls with constituents, I stopped looking. 

“I need to go home and clean up first, but yeah.”

“Thx. I won’t forget this.”

I kiss Andi and Evvie on the cheek goodbye. Evvie reminds me to lock the front door when I get home later because I keep forgetting. 

A third-party dummy LLC delivers DocuSign NDA while I’m in the shower, as expected. After Congress killed Backpage, a friend connected me with a madam that serviced DMV aristocrats. Biglaw partners, corporate lobbyists, agency officials, that sort of thing. In a way, it felt like I got part of my life back, even if I went from rubbing shoulders with power to rubbing them out, 

They don’t just order a hot fuck from a tranny, they order a hot fuck with a quiet tranny, which means encrypted NDAs and self-deleting message apps. It also means more money, if you can build a reputation for discretion.

Which I have, thank you very much.

Thirty minutes later, and I’m in an Uber to The Dupont Circle Hotel. 

“Arrived.” I send through Signal.

“407. Don’t forget the bag.”

In the elevator, I pull a small, translucent grey faraday bag out of my purse. I power down my phone and drop it in the bag. Room 407 was at the end of the hall, on a corner. I check my lipstick in a compact mirror and knock twice.

He’s tall enough, but I’m in platform heels and probably have 2 inches on him barefoot. He looks well built, middle aged with a short brown crew cut speckled with gray. Something inside me bristles even though I can’t see his eyes from the shadow of the door.

Republican.

The suit always gives it away. It’s navy blue with chalk white pinstripes, worsted wool, probably Brooks Brothers judging from the 3/2 lapel roll (bottom two buttoned, of course) and the center vent. It’s intentionally two sizes too big, shoulders hanging two inches off the edge of his delts. His tie is already off, but judging by the collar, the shirt is a perfect fit.

He points to the open mini safe in the suite’s closet. I drop the bag with my phone inside. I know the routine, just like I know he’s about to offer…

“Champagne?” he asks, avoiding eye contact.

“Love it.”  I said with a smile.

He doesn’t even bother to close the safe. So much for security protocols.

The suite’s kitchen is barren except for two flute glasses and an ice bucket with three bottles of Cristal poking their necks out. He turns his back to me and slides off his jacket, wide shoulders tugging at a crisp white button-up shirt.

The collar tracks.  He does know where his shoulder seams belong.

“You, uh, get here alright?” he asks with a familiar voice I can’t place.

“No complaints.” I pitch up my voice. “ Thank you for the car, I appreciate it.”

He turns around with two flutes of champagne in his hand and gestures to a pair of matching cream-colored loveseats. “I thought we could sit down and. You know. Talk for a minute.”

“Gladly” I say, and drop my purse on the kitchenette counter. He sits down on one of the sofas and meekly points to the other one. I take a seat across from him, carefully poised so that my legs look even longer than they actually are. I brush my bangs out of the way and look him in the eye head-on for the first time.

Oh shit. Oh fuck, it’s him.

I know this guy, and anyone half aware would, too. He’s a member, Texas-04 (R). This guy isn’t just a Republican; he’s Mr. Republican. Mr. Former Marine, Mr. Big Swinging Dick. A fucking monster, I saw him on TV like three weeks ago ranting about “child mutilation.” There’s no way I can do this. No fucking way.

You’re already doing it, bitch, get it together. She’s not gonna send you anyone else after this if you leave. And it’s not like your normal guys have good politics anyways. 

“It’s, uh, Harmony, right?” He asks.

“Just like your favorite song. And what should I call you?”

Mr. Big Swinging Dick laughs. “Honestly, I’d rather we didn’t do names for me. It feels… weird. If there’s a next time, maybe. But this time, let’s just keep it formal. Sir, that sort of thing.”

“Yes, sir.” Part of me wants to salute.

He crosses his legs and does a quick scan from head to heels. “You’re really pretty, you know.”

“Aww, thank you.” I smile and take a long swig of the champagne. It crackles on my tongue, light and sharp.

He asks about my day. I make up something about shoe shopping in Georgetown with my imaginary cousin, she’s from Illinois but graduates from GMU in a few weeks and wants some cute but appropriate heels for the ceremony. He asks if I’ve been to college. I went to Dartmouth, but I tell him no, I’m thinking about it, and ask where he went (A&M). 

Remember how you applied to UT Austin as a safety school? 

I ask if he misses Texas and he deploys a joke about barbecue that he’s told five reporters and at least a quarter of his constituents. I smile and laugh and can’t help but feel like I’m back on the hill. 

I lost count of how many late nights I had with my old boss, sitting across from him on a couch in his office going over last-minute amendments or preparing for a big hearing the next day. You see a lot of a person working for them like that. You get to know the versions of themself they show to different people – to the press, the voters, their colleagues and staff, donors, their wife–endless fragmentation, a constant pivoting. Sometimes, after the sixth or seventh hour of an all-night vote, you might see a version that almost seems real. The Senator would joke around, ask if you’re still dating that girl you brought to the Christmas party and then he’d go down to the floor to vote and come back screaming about spelling errors in his memo. This is the first time I’ve been in a room with a member of Congress since I got fired. I’d forgotten how it feels to sit this close to a tiger.

Check your spelling, tranny. Keep him happy.

Mr. Cowboy pours another glass for each of us. I move over to sit next to him and rest my hand behind his neck. He reaches for my knee. His hand is covered in old scars, but it’s soft to the touch. I ask if he’s trying to get me drunk. He laughs and mumbles something about bringing three bottles. I return the laugh like that’s not fucked up and massage the back of his scalp. He smells like Polo Red. 

I hate how much I missed being near this. I hate how I drool at this pathetic sack of shit and can’t help but imagine a gold wreath on his brow, reeking of unearned power.  Even if all he really is is a conduit for something greater and more terrible.

“There’s something I’d like for you to wear laid out on the bed.” He gestures to the bedroom door behind him. “I don’t want to make presumptions about what you do with other men, but I…” he stops, eyes searching around the room for a way to explain what he wants in a way that doesn’t make him ashamed for saying it. “I… you don’t… I don’t want you to use it. I just want everything to be. You know. Normal.”

Double pay and you don’t even have to pop a Viagra, what  a steal.

I split my lips into a wide grin and tuck my chin down to make eyes at him. “Sounds wonderful, sir.”

***

A long pink box wrapped in a black satin ribbon waits for me on the heavy white bedspread. Agent Provocateur printed in delicate cursive on the lid. Inside, a set of bra, panties, garter and stockings, pale blue with pink piping and white accents. I close the door and slump down on the bed next to the box.

He’s not content to fuck us, in the abstract. He wants to shove his dick up my pride-spangled ass, cum inside me, and have me smile and say “yes, sir.”  

Isn’t it great to be in the room where it happens?

My eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere but the bed. The far wall is lined with windows, blinds lowered and half-shut. A glossy black dresser sits on the wall opposite the bed. On top, I spot a fat binder loaded with  briefing memos, left wide open. On the top is a memo stamped CLASSIFIED // EYES ONLY in red.   

Subject line: “TARGET PACKAGE: QUDS FORCE COMMANDER”.

Direct Action Approval Pending.

Grainy drone photos.

Why does he have assassination plans in his briefing binder?!

This is a major fuckup, like, serious federal charges if it gets out Longhorn took this out of the SCIF.

If it gets out.

I could ruin his life.

Bitch, who do you think you are, Chelsea Manning? You’re a transsexual hooker who signed an NDA. Even if you could smuggle it out of here shoved up your asshole, there’s no way you can prove it came from him. All you’d be is a deranged transgender media target who stole classified documents. 

And why would he just leave it out like this?

Because he thinks I don’t know what it is. He paid for a trans escort. People make assumptions.  He expects me to be a high school dropout sucking dick to pay rent.

Girl, you do suck dick for rent. Do your fucking job and go home.

He probably just pulled it to read overnight and left it out without even thinking anyone would notice it was gone.

Because the rules are only for little people, which, girl, you are. You have to sign an NDA, brick your phone and lock it in a safe while he does whatever the fuck he wan-

He left the safe open.

My heart beats against my ribcage. I’d need a photo of the memo next to the other briefing docs. Maybe something else to prove it belongs to him. His floor pin? Yeah. But I’d have to get my phone and take the pics without him noticing.

This is stupid, this is dangerous, this is NOT YOUR THING.

“All done in there?” Mr. Republican calls out from the other room.

“Almost ready!” I put on a bright voice, feeling the floor sink beneath me. “Just want to make sure everything is perfect.”

“Okay.” He answered. “Oh, and one other thing - could you leave it untucked?”

I’ll show him untucked.

I pull up the opaque hosiery as fast as I can, careful not to snag.  I toss my dress on top of the briefing binder,  while checking myself out in the floor-length mirror leaned up against the wall. The set is a close enough fit. I turn around to admire my own ass for a second. I look fucking hot, which makes me angrier.

“Alright, I’m ready” I shout out, entering the room with a show and posing for him on the bed.

***

“You like that?” He bounces his hips up and down haphazardly and out-of-sync with my own. I slow down for him, and gently guide his hand down from my breasts and onto my dick, keeping my eyes locked with his.

“Please?” I whimper.

He nods, screwing his face in concentration as his own hips try to match my movements. He’s yanking hard, a little too tight, but I lean back, arching and moaning for his benefit.

“Cum for me.” He grunts. I can feel how close he is. I throw my head back and tighten every muscle in my body. My face wrings up in concentration, my mouth wide and silent until I let out a sharp gasp. He’s fucked plenty of trans girls, he probably knows I can’t actually cum. It’s easy to fake the rest.

“Oh my god that was incredible.” I sigh, and push my bed head back behind my ears.

“Yeah.” He says, and puts his hand on my waist to gently push me off.

“You know,” I say as I play with his chest hair, “we’ve still got about 45 minutes on the hour. Why don’t you cool off in the shower, see if we can’t get another round before I leave?”

He wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead and stares at the ceiling.

“You sure? It’s getting late.”

“Please,” I pout.  This is fun.”

“I won’t say no,” he says with a smirk and rolls up out of bed.

“You mind if I have some more champagne?” I ask, tracing a circle on my thigh.

“Go ahead, baby. I’m leaving it here anyway. Might as well get our money’s worth.” He winks and heads into the shower.

I speedwalk silently across the lush carpet out to the open safe by the front door and snatch the faraday bag. I take it over to the counter and loudly pull a bottle out of the ice bucket. I pour a glass for myself with one hand and use the other to tug open the airtight zip closure and yank out my phone. 

I push my thumb into the power button hard as I walk back to the bedroom, my glass of champagne quivering in my other hand. As it turns on, the phone buzzes. Evvie sent me a link to a TikTok half an hour ago.

If that’s what gets me killed, I swear to god. 

I set the glass down on the dresser and pick up my dress. 

“Hey,” Mr. GOP calls out from the bathroom. I freeze on the spot. “Don’t get dressed again. Leave on the garter and stockings though,” he yells over the high-pressure water crashing on the tile around him.

“Sure thing.” I call out from a dry throat.

I swipe up on my phone lock screen, and open my settings and turn my location services back on to make sure the photo has the location tagged. I swap over to the camera and snag a pic of the memo. Another of the front of the binder with Mr. Republican’s name and the House Seal on the cover. I put my dress back on top, like before.

Anyone can fake a binder cover. Find his jacket.

It’s hanging from a wooden valet stand in the corner. He put it there after I called him into the room, before he even looked at me. No floor pin on the lapel.

No time!

I dig into the inside pockets. The pin is in his right breast pocket. 

“Right pocket, right pocket, right pocket,” I whisper to myself over and over, finding it and stumbling to pin it back to the lapel. One more photo – and an extra in case. My fingers shake uncontrollably as I remove the pin and stuff it back into the right breast pocket. I shut my phone down again.

I try to sound casual and yell out “Hey, want some?” 

“Huh?” He calls back. I hear him shut off the water.

“Did you want a drink too?”

“Oh.”

A long pause. I can hear my own pulse thrumming in my eardrums.

“Sure. I’ll be right out.”

“Ok, I’ll be right back.”

I dash as fast as I can without making noise. The same routine in reverse. Shake the bottle in the ice while I stuff the phone in the bag and close it up. Quickly stash it back in the open safe.

I walk back into the room with his glass as he comes out of the bathroom in a terry cloth bathrobe.

“Thanks,” he says, then looks around. “Where’s yours?” It’s on the dresser, untouched.

I walk over and pick it up. “Oh, I just left it here while I went to get yours.”

“Huh.” He cocks his head a bit and points. “Still full.”

“I thought maybe we could toast again.”

“Well then. Here’s to…” He drags out ‘to’ buying time to think of something clever. “...a great night so far?”

“A wonderful night so far.” I say, and gently tap my glass against his.

He sits down on the bed and adjusts the pillows so he can sit up comfortably. He pats the spot next to him. I slink over, glass in hand.

“Can I ask you something?” He says as I slide down next to him.

“What, sir?” I say, looking up into his eyes.

“Do you know who I am?” His face is soft, inquisitive. The walls swim, and the Cristal flips in my stomach.

“I mean, I know you’re in Congress.” I watch his face for changes.

“Right. But I mean… look, you’re transgendered. It’s ok. You know who I am?”

I can’t lie about it. This guy is pretty ubiquitous. All but the most offline trans women would at least know he’s an anti-trans Republican. The fact that he’s asking means he knows that. He probably knew I would recognize him before I even arrived.

“Yeah. I’ve seen you on TV before.” I feel naked, which isn’t helped by the fact that I am.

“And it doesn’t bother you?” He asks, putting a hand on my thigh.

“I… I try not to care about politics. I just don’t see the point.” It’s only half a lie. He runs both hands over me.

“Well, why not?”

”Alright. To be honest, voting feels like pissing in the wind. It’s not like you or anyone in office is actually listening to your constituents. Whatever democracy we had in this country broke down a long time ago and people like me just kinda get jerked around by people who think they know what’s best for us. Which is to say, to care at this point just makes me tired and angry with nothing to show for it so I just chose not to.”

He stares at me for a second before he breaks into a broad, toothy grin. “You know what,” he says, “I think I want to keep you.”

“Keep me?”

“A retainer kinda situation. My last girl, I gave fifteen-k a month. You’d have to be available on-call, agree to a few more security measures, but that’s more or less it.”

Words catch in my throat.

“I get it, that’s a lot of money.”

It’s a fucking lot of fucking money.

That’s… everything. There’s no way he’s serious.

“You’re teasing me.” I lightly swat his arm with an open hand.

“No, not at all,” he whispered, his hand moving down to my cock. I felt it genuinely start to tremble.  “I’ve been looking for a… replacement for a while. I just can’t get enough of you. That sweet mouth and tight little ass. I even have a place set aside we can use, the hotel is more of an interview thing.”

How stupid are you? For all you know, that binder is a prop in some half-cocked vetting process. This dude might have cameras everywhere, waiting to find out how much of an idiot you actually are.

No, there’s no way, no way he’d risk a sex tape with some trans prostitute getting out.

But still, it could be a test.

Or he’s careless. Hell, vetting hookers is probably the idea of some weird pimp staffer whose job it is to watch out for his idiot boss.

“Look, just think about it for a couple days. Here,” he says, getting up and walking over to the jacket hanging from the chair. He fishes out a sticky note and writes out a Signal contact number. “If this is what you want, just get in touch.”

He drops the note on the bedside table and pulls off his robe. Mr. GOP looks up at the ceiling and starts stroking his dick slowly. He’s towering over me. I can’t remember the last time I felt this small. 

Damn, bitch, you’re harder than he is. 

I crawl over the bed and blow him.

***

Once I’m in the back seat of the Uber home, I turn my phone back on. The photos I took earlier stare back at me as I slide back and forth between them and finger the sticky note in my purse. I get carsick on the way.

Evvie, Andi and I live in a third-floor walk-up north of H street. It’s humid, so I open my bedroom window and light a joint. My skin feels swollen and waterlogged, and I still feel nauseous from the drive back. I look at the photos again. They’re planning a drone strike on the number 3 guy in Quds. 

Just how exposed are you right now?

The NDA I signed is clear about my financial liability. It’s a lot. Then there’s the fact that it's classified, so I may or may not have violated the Espionage Act. A bit of champagne, bile, and presumably semen creeps up my throat. I gag and swallow it back down. 

In theory, I should be alright. A good journalist won’t give up their source, and even if they do, I ought to be protected by whistleblower laws. 

All of that depends on getting the benefit of the doubt, which you won’t. And you’ll lose your job. Again.

I’ve sweat through the back of my dress, so I peel it off. The congressman sent me home in the lingerie. He’d insisted I take it, said he couldn’t imagine it on anyone else. Which was good because I wasn’t going to give it back. I’m still wearing it. I look good. I sit on the windowsill and stare at myself in the floor-length mirror next to my closet. 

I snap a picture of my reflection.

I’m tired and I feel like shit. I slip the sticky note into a paperback on my nightstand and collapse onto the bed. 

Evvie’s TikTok was a fancam of Al Pacino in Dog Day Afternoon. It’s not bad.

***

I wake around 11. Evvie is sitting at the kitchen island with monitor headphones on and a MIDI keyboard plugged into her laptop.  She slips the headphones down around her neck when I walk out of my room in an XXL t-shirt and Scooby-Doo pajama pants.

“Hey, Becca. I got donuts delivered. Want some?” She points at a white box on the counter. 

“You’re literally an angel.” I shuffle over and pick through the remaining options while Evvie reheats a mug of coffee in the microwave for me. 

“You see the news?” She asks as I munch on a raspberry jelly donut. I shake my head. So far, six Democrats have confirmed they’re going to vote for the bill. My old boss is one of them. 

My timeline is full of angry trans women. Angry at their representatives, angry at journalists, angry at right-wing posters, angry at each other for being the wrong kind of angry. A girl I follow in Idaho is reposting her GoFundMe to move to California because her state has cut off Medicare coverage for trans health, and her mentions are full of girls yelling at her that it’s about to be fucked in California, too. Andi is on here, arguing with a journalist at the Washington Post for saying the bill isn’t a ban. Cis leftists are posting about the bill, they’re posting about genocide, they’re complaining about journalists. The journalists are posting about journalists.

I don’t feel like posting.

I don’t feel like looking for a journalist.

I feel like going for a walk.

I take a shower, put on some clothes, and head out. My head is buzzing so I let my feet decide where to go. Soon enough, muscle memory is walking me to work. My current apartment is about 15 minutes from the house I shared with three other hill staffers back in the day. Every morning for four years, I walked past the same brick rowhouses to Stanton Park on the way to the Hart building. Stanton Park is a tiny little patch of grass, but it’s right by the Capitol and stuffed with cherry blossom trees. During the peak bloom, I would take my lunch break and walk back to the park so I could lay out under the vanilla-scented pink and white blossoms for an hour and cry. Faggot shit.

I stop outside the horseshoe entrance to the Hart building. Part of me wants to go in and walk up to my old office. Instead of calling, I could go in and yell at them in-person. Make them see one of the people getting tossed into the volcano to make it rain. But then, they still watch my Instagram stories. They know what they’re doing. They don’t care. I didn’t. I told myself that everything I did was worth it because, in the long run, it would bring some kind of justice to the world, no matter how much blood we get on our hands on the way.

As long as I had a reason, I could get myself to do anything without guilt. My pragmatism became a virtue. And now I’m on the outside, and I’m sad and angry and terrified but above all, I feel like this is the justice that was always coming for me and that the others don't deserve it

I walk past the Hart building, toward the Capitol. I pull out my phone and search for Mr. Republican’s profile on X. “Even Democrats can’t ignore the fact that Americans don’t want their hard-earned money fostering delusional men who hurt women and girls!” I know he didn’t write it, and I didn’t expect anything less, but it hurts. 

I find a shady spot under a tree between the Supreme Court and the Capitol building. Sunlight refracts off the white marble dome. It’s too bright to look at. When I was an intern, I had to give tours of the Capitol to visiting constituents. I loved telling them about the Statue of Freedom at the top of the dome, installed by emancipated slaves in 1863. The bronze statue was originally designed with a Phrygian cap, worn by freed slaves in Rome as a symbol of their station. It was changed to a war helmet in the final design. I used to think that said something profound, but I couldn’t have told you what. 

It’s cool here under the Magnolia tree on the lawn. I remember watching Jan. 6 across the street from here. I stood at the corner of First and East Capitol while a churning throng of flag-waving morons jeered and shouted for hours until I heard a dull bang inside the building and ran home. I remember how nothing really happened. 

I open X and start to look for a journalist. There’s a natsec reporter for the Wall Street Journal I used to read. Someone who probably won’t give up a source when the feds bend his arm. I pull up his feed and read his recent posts. He’s been talking about the appropriations bill this morning, agreeing with the WaPo editor that thinks the healthcare ban isn’t a ban. 

I’m sure he’s gonna protect a trans prostitute when the FBI shows up.

I don’t need this. I don’t want to be responsible for this anymore. This isn’t my problem.

I delete the photos. Then I go into the recently deleted folder and erase the photos forever.

***

I’m sweating again by the time I get home. Evvie is sitting on the couch, legs crossed, eating a Greek yogurt as I walk in. She asks me to hang.

“Andi went to see her mystery man, it’s just us tonight.” She mutes the TV as I sit down next to her. 

“Right. Wonder why she still won’t tell us about him.”

“I dunno. Probably another closted Republican.” We laugh.

At least you can say you get paid.

“Hey,” I say, “Sorry I was kind of a cunt last night. It’s just like, it feels like there’s nothing I can do about it, you know? I just don’t want to think about it, at least, I want to think about it as little as I can.” She puts a manicured hand on my arm and rubs it with her knuckles. 

  “No, I get it. I hate being that person just reading the news at the bar. I just figured you guys should know.” She takes my hand and, after a moment, asks “Do you actually think this is gonna happen?” 

“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh, “but it looks bad.’

We sit there together in silence. Evvie rubs the back of my hand with her thumb, over and over, and I pull her in so she can rest her head on my shoulder. She starts to cry, and I hold her until she stops.

“They’re closing the clinic.” She blows her nose. “They told me last week.”

The outline of my body dissolves and I spread out into the room around me.  

She bought me donuts. 

“Fuck. What are you gonna do?”

“I guess look for another job. Probably start whoring again until I do.”

“Damn.”

We stare at the TV as two drag queens scream at each other and make faces to the camera. 

The paperback is still on the nightstand. I make an excuse and slip into my bedroom to pull out the sticky note and stare at it. Outside, a car horn blares and a man’s voice yells out. Cicadas swarm and chitter. I look back at Evvie in the other room.

It’s a lot of money. 

I open Signal and message the contact number “alright.” I send the picture I took in my bedroom last night, too.

“Hey, do you want Chinese tonight?” I call out to the other room

***

Two weeks later, I see a story on Instagram about how 37 civilians were killed in a missile strike on a “military target" in Iran that turned out to be an apartment complex. Eight of them were children.

I double tap a heart reaction, then re-post it on my own story, knowing I don’t change a thing.

The phone buzzes in my hand, and a Signal notification pops up at the top of the screen.

“I’m free tonight.”

I text back “Me too :)”

Cassandra Spencer is currently living in Toronto. She is working on a series of short stories. You can find her on Bluesky at @hotsmartgirl.bsky.social and Instagram at @hot_smart_girl