Monica sits across from me, reclining on the white pleather chaise subbing as a dining bench, tucked into the corner of my 200-square-foot apartment.

“What’s your last name?”

We look at each other, already half-giggling, as we say “Lewinsky” at the same time.

It’s the least feminist answer, but the one that must happen.

“Do you believe in free will?” I ask her.

“Sort of.”

“Well?”

“I believe you’re born a certain way and sometimes you can’t really change that and also you’re born into circumstances that you can’t necessarily change and they shape you as a person and might influence you to act certain ways,” she finishes.

“So no,” I summarize, faking sobs, “there’s no free will, there’s no,” I gasp, looking forlornly at the ceiling, “free will.”

Monica chooses, or rather simply does, always sit on this white Walmart chaise. It seems fancy until you throw in the word Walmart. I don’t think she knows this piece of furniture’s origin story. Unrelated: I have plenty of other seating. I wonder what drives her to this low makeshift dining bench. It is the one question I do not ask.

She has one for me, “have you noticed how men look guilty at you when you’re carrying heavy things?”

“Did that just happen?” We had been carrying heavy things down the block -- because Monica is a champion and agreed to help me move a portion of my immense book collection into my apartment.

“Maybe it’s in my head,” she allows. “But it’s funny how men care about that but don’t care about the heavier metaphysical psychological burdens…. on women.”

We leave it at that.

“Where do you live?” I ask her, before remembering “where did you grow up?”

She lists off place names, starting with her birth in New York City (Brooklyn) and ending up in the Berkshires, age eleven, to meet me.

“Austin,” now.

“Why are you living there?”

“I wanted to get away from the North East,” she tells me, not quite like it’s the Middle East but almost.

“What’s so wrong with the North East?”

“Nothing,” she demures.

“No, but what’s wrong with the North East?”

I’m waiting for a rant against the cold New England temperament, friendliness levels that falter in comparison to even Pittsburgh’s, maybe the irritation of hair icicles.

Monica doesn’t give it to me. She left because she was looking for a change. Plus she wanted to live in a city, but not New York or Boston or as her Mom suggested (it’s so small! she protests), Portland, Maine.

I nod, Portland is decidedly small.

Therefore, Austin.

“How much is rent?” I’ve prefaced this, of course, with an introduction that “some of these questions will seem conventionally rude.”

“1500 for three of us, but it’s nice to live in a house.”

I agree “it sounds nice to live in a house,” but I’m not sure I mean it, as I have lived in houses (my parents’, and another time with roommates) and have solidly come to prefer living alone (ergo apartment).

“What’s the worst thing about your living situation?”

She tells me about an asshole neighbor who acted confused as to why she was trying to converse with him when she tried to converse with him. Lots of motorcycle revving, limited eye contact.

Not to mention the roommate who hasn’t moved in yet, but was upset enough to aggressive text over one singular box of Monica’s shoes temporarily residing in roommate’s almost room.

I confess freely that I would have been that roommate.

By freely I mean now.

I did not inform Monica of my growing concern that I would be her nightmare roommate.

Plus the cockroach infestation.

Well, at least two cockroaches, but probably dozens more unseen and lurking, waiting for the right time to devour more than dead-skin-cell-dust, but the housemates themselves.

“Cockroaches are a big problem in Texas,” Monica enlightens me.

I had thought scorpions were the problem, which makes me think I’m a New Englander from my winter-colored skin to my visible blue veins. I clearly need to read (read: consume media) less and travel a little more. Oh, for the need of monies.

Sipping gin and seltzers (because that is what my life is like) and munching on Annie’s Berry Bunny cereal [8:30pm], we continue.

“How old were you when you had your first job?”

“It was ninth grade, I think, that summer… I was filing, in a neurology office.”

“In a neurology office, hmm? That’s specific,” I kid. “It’s almost like you had a friend who had a mom…”

We laugh. The joke is only funny because our friend did have a mom who did have a neurology practice.

Monica lists off jobs less fluidly than places she’d lived as a child, punctuating with “wait” and “I’m forgetting something,” and “I can’t remember.”

Highlights: waitress, barista, student librarian.

Now?

Just stopped driving for a food delivery service.

Writing articles for wikihow.

Working at an art museum.

“How much do you make?”

“Not enough.”

Discussing money discomforts people. Not without good reason, finances are the locus of many social anxieties.

“So, how much do you make?” I press.

“Well, I make $10.50 an hour at WikiHow and $12 an hour at the museum.”

“How many hours do you work a week?”

“A little over forty.”

“What’s the breakdown?”

“Three days a week at the museum -- eight hour days.”

“And WikiHow?”

“Well, you’re only allowed to claim 3 hours per article you generate, but for me it’s more like five hours to write an article. I write four a week, now.”

“So $10.50 isn’t really $10.50.”

“No,” she agrees.

“What’s the worst work experience you’ve ever had?”

Looking at first amused and then slightly pained, Monica describes the woman who had hired her as a barista in Austin, and then conducted an employee review as if Monica was working at the White House and not only intending to stay long term, but asking for a raise.

She divided barista tasks into thirty categories. Made Monica rate herself 1-5 in each category. Then she rated Monica 1-5. Then compared. She would ask, “so I see you gave yourself a four in efficiency, whereas I have you at a two. Could you tell me why you gave yourself a four?”

Crying occurred about forty-minutes in.

Monica left the restaurant, because yes, this took place in public, and went outside to sit in a train station to finish crying.

Her boss came out after, trying to comfort, and asked, “can I hug you?”

Monica obviously said, “no.”

“How long did it take for you to quit after that?”

“I was there for a few more weeks.”

“Good for you, I would have quit the next day.”

“I’d just spent several weeks without a job, so I was broke,” she explains.

“Money is a good motivator.”

There is a pause.

“She’s dead now,” relates Monica, of her ex-boss. “She committed suicide.”

With that, we progress to the fun part of the interview, or what I thought would be the fun part of the interview. Monica later tells me that she could have done without the “hopes and dreams” questions.

“Which ones?” I think. “Like, what’s your greatest ambition?”

“Yeah - that one,” she affirms.

“How many best friends do you have?”

“Two,” Monica tells me.

“Describe your best friend in three words.”

“Funny, smart...”

“Overwhelmingly handsome? That’s two words, just kidding.”

“Open-minded.”

“Describe yourself in three words.”

“Shy,” she offers.

“Describe how your best friend would describe you in three words.”

“Reserved.”

Perhaps life approval ratings would go up if we all thought about ourselves as we imagine our best friends do.

“What is the best thing about you,” I ask her, riding the positivity wave.

Monica pauses, then “I guess that I just kinda like doing my own thing.”

“What’s your biggest flaw?”

“I think I care too much about what people think of me.”

“What do you wish people would notice about you?” I ask.

“My beauty,” she says, and then laughs.

But I’m pretty sure she’s serious.

The sentiment gives me pause. Because young ladies, empowered as we are, aren’t supposed to wish for attention based on beauty. I begin to think maybe that supposed to restriction is wrong.

“What’s the weirdest compliment you’ve ever received?”

She doesn’t hesitate, “I’ve had several guys sexually tell me that they like the contrast of my dark hair against my white skin, and it makes me feel weird.”

“Oh no,” I sympathize, “what is wrong with people?”

“The people haven’t been white either,” she adds.

“I’m not sure that makes it better,” I interrupt.

“It doesn’t,” Monica tells me. “But they’ve also been pretty well-educated.”

“I guess,” I guess, “that sex makes it okay to say things like that?”

What I mean is that the liminal space during sexual, pre-sexual, and post-sexual relations allows for comments that would normally seem racist or sexist to seem, actually, listen up everyone, just as racist or sexist as if said to a stranger.

“What’s the worst line someone has used on you?”

“Something like one of those 'are you from heaven,' angel, baby…”

I can’t prevent the surprise from creeping into my expression and intonation, “oh no, did someone actually say that?”

“It was someone on the street, it wasn’t a real person.”

“That’s a real person!” I literally say, “Yikes!”

At least he didn’t shout to Monica that he liked the contrast between her dark hair and pale skin, because that would have been creepy.

CREEPY.

“What’s the worst date you’ve been on?”

“I haven’t been on many dates,” she starts. “My only Tinder date… he was okay, just not really my type. He talked like a surfer from California but was from Virginia. At some point he was like ‘I think my homies are at this bar’.”

“And you were like nevermind?”

“And he was really into skateboarding.”

I nod. This confirms my suspicion that millennial women must use DOES NOT SKATEBOARD (often?!) as dating criteria.

“What’s the most romantic gesture you’ve gestured?” I question.

“I draw people,” she admits, “I draw my lovers, sometimes naked.”

“What?” my brain finishes integrating this information about Monica and then I can continue, “what’s the most romantic thing anyone has done for you, or to you, although really for you, I don’t want to hear about anyone getting up on ya.”

She names an ex-boyfriend. “He did a lot of romantic things,” she confides, “but I didn’t like them because I thought they were so corny.”

“Was it the cologne in the bag of jewels?” I offer.

“Well, one time he wrote out that song,” she sings, “cuz you’re amazing, just the way you are.”

“Oh, no…”

“He wrote out all the lyrics on piece of paper, and played me the song, and handed me the note.”

“...That’s so… cute…” I try. “But so not right.”

“What’s your biggest secret?”

“Skip,” Monica says. “Not that I have one.”

“Was it Bill Clinton?” I do not say, at all, out loud, ever.

I, in fact, silently apologize to the Monica Lewinsky, hoping that no one will bring her up this election, but knowing that my hopes will be (and already have been) squashed.

“What’s your biggest regret?”

“That I did sexual things with my ex-boyfriend’s friend.”

“He deserved it,” I snark, quietly.

Then I ask her, “can you sum up your morals in the length of approximately one tweet?”

“No.”

I laugh, “can you try?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“What’s the pettiest thing you’ve ever done? Feel free to skip.”

“I don’t like a lot of ex-girlfriends that people I’m interested in have. I scope them out, online, and try to discover their flaws,” Monica is too self-aware to not then half-joke, “because of my underlying suspicions that they’re better women than I.”

“What do you believe in?” I ask.

“That people should try to be the best person that they can be?” she says. “And I’m kind of Jewish, also.”

“I guess that answers my religion/spirituality question,” I relate. “Are there aliens?”

“Yes.”

“How do you feel about Atlantis?”

“It’s a cool story.”

“What tv show, movie, book influenced you the most as a child?”

“Harry Potter,” immediately.

“Can you elaborate like, in two more sentences?”

“I was obsessed with it. It was my life.”

I aim for deeper:

“What house would you have been in?”

“Not sure, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff…”

“No, but which house would you have been in?” I repeat.

“Gryffindor.”

“Thank you. Who was your favorite character?”

“Snape.”

“Would you have sexed him?”

“Yes.”

“Hands down yes,” it’s not a question.

A few minutes later, I ask her, “what’s your biggest ambition?”

She says “to be an auror.”

“What’s standing in your way?... that Harry Potter doesn’t exist?”

That idea is too serious, so I switch:

“Who do you most admire, for a specific action?”

“Severus Snape,” Monica does not say.

“My mom,” she explains. “For raising me as a single mother.”

“What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?”

“That no one knows what they’re doing, and to just pretend that you do.”

“Did I tell you that?” I kid. I imagine the advice-giver to be Monica’s mom, but I don’t know.

“Alright, can you name your three favorite things, any category, go:”

“Boys,” she says immediately. “Pretty things….”

“In Latin that would totally work as a noun,” I allow.

She’s taking a full minute to silently contemplate this, so I whisper “Pokemon.”

Monica repeats, “Pokemon.”

“Just kidding,” I say.

“Harry Potter,” Monica concludes.

“And what three things are you grateful for?” I ask her my final question, then help to shape it, “today, specifically today, what three things are you most grateful for?”

“That I am pretty financially alright,” she says. “I can afford -- my parents paid for me to come back [to the North East] for vacation, and that I don’t have any loans, and I really appreciate the food I’ve been eating at my parents’ house, like watermelon and blueberries. And Pokemon Go, because it adds a little sparkle to my day.”