Untitled
She said she had questions.
They hadn’t spoken in eleven months.
Then she asked him to call. She said she had questions.
Six minutes—one play of Adagio—later:
“Is Theo short for anything?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“No. It’s just Theo.”
The hour oscillated between silence and what he called “screaming.” She called it enthusiasm.
She said she was disappointed.
“You’re really young,” he responded.
“You’re only two years older.”
“Three. I’m twenty-nine. You’re twenty-six.”
“I’m turning twenty-seven.”
“I’m turning thirty.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“April.”
“Mine’s November. So about two and a half years.”
“That’s beside the point. You were homeschooled.” He said it was probably inevitable that she’d spend so much of her PhD exploring everything but her PhD.
“What does that mean?”
“Go easy on yourself.”
She really needed to pee. “Tell me a story,” she said.
“What?”
“Tell me a story. While I go. Two minutes.”
He told her the museums in Austria were so mid. Everything was woke. He just wanted to see some sick engineering.
“I’m embarrassed.”
“No, you’re not.” He said if she were really embarrassed, she wouldn’t have shared her chapbook. Or recited any of those lines.
“You’re bold,” he added.
She was. But she was embarrassed, too. Once, he’d told her that asymmetry was okay.
She realized she knew him mostly through his grand abstractions, so she asked for specifics.
“Do you have any siblings?”
“No.”
“Tell me about your family.”
He gave her his entire lineage—a war, death, a move, estrangements, more moves. It ended with three and a half living relatives, none of whom he was remotely close to.
“I’m alone in this world.”
“Do you feel lonely?”
“Sometimes.”
“Tell me about your friends.”
He humored her. Two in Chicago. One in D.C. One in San Diego. He was also warming up to someone at work.
“How about Kevin?”
A pause. “Yes. Kevin too.”
“Do you want to talk about your parents?”
“No.”
“Okay. Were you sad as a child?”
“Yes.” Now, he said, was probably the most unsad he’d ever been.
“Why do you want kids?”
“I want to give someone a better life.”
“Do you think you’d ever be jealous of your children?”
“I’ve never been jealous of anyone.”
Still, her heart felt funny. “抱抱,” she said.
“What?”
“抱. Bào. Hug.”
“I’m learning Mandarin.”
“Why?”
“It’d be useful for business.”
“I actually lived in Taiwan,” she said, “for, like, eight years.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I’m just bad with language.”
He muttered something.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What’d you say?”
“I’m not repeating it.”
Her kryptonite, she told him, was ambiguity. And taxes.
“Taxes are once a year,” he said.
“I have to file in two countries.”
“Still, it’s once a year.”
“It’s hard.”
“If you can’t do your taxes on amphetamines, you’re cooked.”
“You should wear sunscreen,” she said.
“Where did that come from?”
She remembered his freckles. “Wear sunscreen,” she repeated.
“I’m not worried about aging.”
She wasn’t either. “I’m buying you seven tubes the next time I’m in Japan.”
“I’m not wearing it.”
“Theo.”
“I’m hot, and I’ll get hotter.”
“Sunscreen can only help.”
He didn’t care.
“Your future will. She’ll thank me.”
“Do you get a lot of Robux working at Roblox?” he asked.
“Yes. Would you like mine?”
“Yeah.”
“You sound so sad,” he said.
“I’m not.” She was just getting sleepy. She was usually so animated that anything softer sounded sad.
“I hope you feel better,” he insisted.
“I feel great.” Then she almost laughed. He used to say that.
He wasn’t convinced.
“Theo?”
“Yeah?”
“What did I mean to you that fall?”
A stretch of silence.
“I can’t answer that.”
“Did you think of me in the spring?”
Another stretch.
“Probably.”