Gracie Beaver

He’s strumming along to the Muzak hold music on the vintage lute he bought at a flea market. 

I’ve forgotten his name but it’s probably something quirky like Sage. 

He’s writing a dystopian novel where your credit score determines your social standing. There’s a 640 and an 820 who are in love, but can’t be together. I’m the 640. 

He feels devastated that my card was declined at Olive Garden. To make it up to me, he’ll invite me over and make me his Nona’s authentic Italian manicotti. 

Along with three coworkers—one of whom is a woman who I find non-sexually-threatening, he’s in an indie-folk band whose name is a credit card pun. The APRs or something. 

He asked me to apply for a limit increase because he knows that I deserve nice things and am beautiful…even if I don’t know it myself yet.  

When my limit increase was declined due to my 640 score, he joked that it was just sent to live on a farm with other credit applications. He’s so silly, but in a hot way. 

He is Joseph Gordon-Levitt. 

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