Jason keeps a motorcycle in the window of the office. One time, when Jason was in his early twenties but his twin was in his mid-forties, he took a motorcycle trip through Argentina, nose to tail. Back then he had hair and he kept it long, flowing out of the back of his Che beret.

After the hurricane Christine floats her Lamborghini down the street, Paddington yellow to match her slicker. What, you don’t drive in the rain. What, your car doesn’t turn into a yacht.

Heather has a yacht that is named the Love Boat. My last name is Love, says Heather. But actually it’s my literal last name.

Emma has a power-pink Vespa she rides in matching heels and a matcha-green helmet. It’s a power move. It runs on Moon Juice. It takes exactly the length of a barre class to recharge.

Six-bedroom, sixteen-car garage. The motorcycle is parked on the second-floor balcony where the Christmas tree would be, but the house fell out of escrow when the client didn’t want the motorcycle and the floor fell through when the project manager’s men tried to take it out of the house because the house had been built around the motorcycle. At least the project manager’s men were built so Heather could watch their muscles rise and fall, rise and fall.

Early in the morning, Jason sits on his motorcycle in the bay window facing the street, stage lights still lighting it from below. Vroom, vroom, says Jason, softly.

Do not let your hopes carry you away from reality.