by Alexandra Naughton
Pink shards of the day’s fading sunlight puncture the dusty plastic venetian blinds above a plaid couch, casting a pastel lividity on the walls of a small home office. The couch once sat center stage in a living room, hosting movie viewings and Friday night pizza feasts. Battered and thready, it’s now relegated to a cramped spare room.
In a dark plaid shirt and black worn out skinny jeans, THE FOUNDER, our antagonist, a young man in his mid-20s, sits at the computer desk adjacent to the couch. He sits like this most days when he is at home. Hunched over, tapping away on the keyboard, headphones strapped to his ears. He appears to be busy.
His eyes dart from one monitor to the other, and back. On one monitor — the monitor facing away from the door — a video plays. Shot from below, in the point of view of a person laying on the floor, a large breasted woman wearing blue spandex shorts and a black crop top stands and stomps her feet, as if to give the viewer the sensation of having their face and body trampled on. The video plays muted, on loop.
On the second monitor, his Facebook timeline. A row of chat boxes blink and pulse with new messages. What are you doing tonight? pops up on the screen. He clicks into the box to show he’s read it, but doesn’t reply. He clicks on another, where a months-long and frequently updated back and forth has cultivated, and types a new message to reopen the conversation: thinking about you.
The recipient immediately reads it and starts typing a response. The sight of the bouncing ellipses makes the close cut hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The chat box pulses. I miss you, it says. I made this today for you, it says, then follows up with a link to a post on Twitter. Clicking the link, he’s directed to a ten-second long video in which he’s tagged, captioned mfw I’m thinking of you. In the video, a 20-something woman with a face painted by a Pre-Raphaelite stands in a garden, head tilted to the sky and smiling. She sways and softly runs her fingers through her long mousy tresses.
Lol, he replies. Feigning candor like this, knowing the type of response it will usually elicit, is more satisfying than railing a fat line of Adderall.
Buzz buzz buzz. Next to the keyboard, his phone vibrates, indicating an incoming call. Buzz buzz buzz. The screen illuminates, he only glances at it slightly. He knows it’s his friend, the balding 40-something photographer. Buzz buzz buzz. He lets it go to voicemail. Immediately, it starts buzzing again. A new chat box pops up on his second screen. I see you’re online. I’ve been trying to call you. Did you pass security yet? They’re already starting to board.
He clicks the text box to let his photographer friend know that he’s read the message, then leans back in his chair and scratches the scalp behind his ear. Little flakes of hair product sprinkle his shoulder. Buzz buzz buzz. Buzz buzz buzz. He refocuses his dead-eyed attention to the first screen, powerlessly watching the woman’s legs tower over him as she simulates mashing his flesh like a tub of grapes. Buzz buzz buzz. He clicks the button on the side of the phone to silence it. A new message pops up in the chat box from his photographer friend. I’m getting on the plane. Hope to see you soon.
A small smirk prowls under his nose as he types a reply. Sorry, I’m going to bail. And with that, he logs off, removes the headphones, rises, and bends over the couch, digging under a cushion to retrieve an orange prescription bottle. Opens it and shakes two pills into his hand. Dry swallows. Then restores the container in its hiding place.
“The reflection of your father’s face was terrifying in the dark.”
The voice is dry and shaky. He turns and faces his grandma, standing in the doorway wearing her purple tracksuit. How long was she standing there?
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” he asks her. It’s getting late. By this time, she’s normally in her room watching 90 Day Fiancé with the new boyfriend he helped find for her on eHarmony. The boyfriend isn’t here tonight, so her routine must be thrown off.
“Oh no, nothing like that,” she says, looking down the hallway. “But would you happen to be heading over by Chick-fil-A tonight? I’m in the mood for one of those salads.”
“Sure, Grammy. I can get you one.” He turns toward the computer to reconfirm the screens are powered off and grabs his phone from the desk.
Grammy claps her hands together. “Oh boy. And you should get one for yourself, as well. You haven’t left this room all day.”
“I have to work. I’m building something important.”
“I know you are dear,” she says, backing away from the doorway. She shuffles down the hall and returns with two twenty-dollar bills. She hands the money over to him, then clasps her hands over his fist. “And one of those lemonades, too.”
***
Once again, he is alone. Before leaving the house to head out to the drive-thru, he checks his phone. His signature compulsion. Swiping through notifications, ignoring the ten incredulous texts from his photographer friend who is now going on a trip to Tulum by himself. He chuckles and starts a new chat with a new woman, some artsy type from Oakland he added on Facebook several months ago. A green dot next to her profile picture in Messenger lets him know she’s online. Thinking we should go here someday, he types, then sends a screenshot of a boomer commenting When are you going to have navy bean soup again? on the Facebook page of Dino’s Family Restaurant.
Jumping ellipses. She’s typing something. Another little jolt of electricity shocks through his body. Thinkin about thos beans, she messages back.
______
Alexandra Naughton is a writer, editor, and literary events producer based in Philadelphia. Her latest book, Sick of Being Inside Myself, was published by House of Vlad Press in September 2025. Links to her work may be found at alexandranaughton.com.
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