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shallow as me be discussed
     in depth?
    “Trevor thinks the way we met is cool. He’s like, ‘Here’s a guy who’s adventurous.
     This guy’s not afraid to stay clicked.’”
    “You didn’t tell him about the alibi.”
    “I left that detail out.” She laughs. It’s a loose, happy laugh, I have to say. Not
     what I would imagine for a cult member.
    “What is this thing you’ve joined?”
    “Pure Encounters? It’s kind of like group therapy.”
    “But there’s a lot of political stuff. Corporations.”
    “That’s more Trevor’s gig. I think their point is that sex is the only thing left
     they can’t take away and sell back to us.”
    “Is that some sort of jargon, stay clicked?”
    “Most people get un-clicked. They sort of curl up in themselves.”
    I take a deep breath and imagine Rachel as a tribeswoman—say, a Maori, her chin covered
     in fascinating ta-moko tattoos—explaining her ancient traditions to me. It’s a strategy
     that sees me through this kind of conversation.
    “They definitely kind of have their own special language,” she says. “Stay clicked.
     Filtration of self. It’s like AA. Have you ever been in AA?”
    “No. Have you?”
    “Court-ordered.”
    I take a sip of my beer. “Raj said you’d had some impure encounters.”
    She clears her throat. “I wish he hadn’t.”
    “I thought you should know.”
    “Do you want to hear about them?”
    I summon the wisdom of my years, the wisdom to avoid questions I don’t want the answers
     to. Impure encounters. I’m sure I’ve had my share, especially in my revolving door
     days. I don’t need to know about hers. I
want
to, but my life will be better—calmer—if I don’t.
    Is calm the most I hope for nowadays? Am I reaching that awful impasse, where all
     I want from life is less of it?
    “Sure,” I say.
    She looks away from me, toward the counter where a family is paying their bill. “I
     had this asshole boyfriend,” she says in a low voice. “He was really into making videos.
     You know,
videos
. He put one on the Internet.” She clears her throat again. “Actually more than one.”
    I let that information hang in the air, trying to get a feel for its density, its
     shape. She turns back to watch me, awaiting my Solomonic judgment.
    “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?” she says.
    “It’s not a service activity to put on your CV,” I say. “But I’ve heard worse.”
    “It’s a betrayal that never goes away.”
    Permanent and unfixable, a humiliation always a few keystrokes away. Worse, it’s a
     crime her every other lover will have to atone for. But the ceiling fan is tossing
     her hair in just the way of the beach wind, and I find her at this moment beautiful,
     injured, and resolute.

4
    S TILL, I spend a couple of hours online, checking into Pure Encounters. The Web site is professional,
     but not very specific. They recommend you come to “the Lodge,” not far from AT&T Park,
     for an orientation. They host an array of “sessions”—ClickIns, MeditationOuts, Purify,
     something called the VAM Method. Everything they do is suspiciously trademarked (and
     expensive), a hodgepodge of Buddhism, chakras, and crystal-waving. Purifying yourself—they
     offer retreats and cleanses—is the first step to a level of enlightenment that leads
     in a vaguely explained manner to happy relationships—or what is described as attaining
     “a deep limbic click” with your “intimate.” The lingo is alarming. But what if she
     was Mormon? Jehovah’s Witness? Or—God forbid—Southern Baptist? Would it be less alarming?
     In some ways, these businessy spiritual outfits are very practical. You hand over
     your money, get your fix, and then you’re done. I’m certainly no believer in the One
     True Way. She’s seeking, and if this path is useful then it’s useful. As long as I’m
     never asked to attend a ClickIn.
    drbas: what did you do this weekend, frnd1?
    frnd1: i visited a girl
    drbas: how old is