Fucking: The Babysitter Portable

“There was a giant squirrel. It wanted my granola bar.”

She wasn’t a babysitter. She was a curator of borrowed comfort. fucking the babysitter

At 8:00 PM, Chloe stood in the Harts’ living room, barefoot on their Persian rug, wearing Mrs. Hartwell’s cashmere throw like a ceremonial robe. She had the surround sound on low—just enough to feel the bass in her ribs. She’d selected The Lost City , a dumb, glossy adventure movie that cost $20 million to make and required zero brain cells. In her left hand: a glass of the dad’s limited-release Hazy IPA. In her right: the remote. “There was a giant squirrel

The entertainment never ended. It just changed zip codes. At 8:00 PM, Chloe stood in the Harts’

She climbed into her own cold bed, still smelling faintly of Mrs. Hartwell’s fancy lotion, and smiled.