Think an electron falling into its natural valence shell, post—“excited state,” compare it to a marker and its cap snapping together, remember how fabric starts to fray only where cuts are made.
After a few moments of this direct shoulder-to-shoulder connection, Minnie Fishman makes the effort to speak. “So, I read this book, The Lightness of Being Unbearable, something like that—” she feels his shoulder shudder with laughter next to hers, and she continues in her nervously proper voice, “—and I was looking for someone to talk to about it.”
Think of the constant running script of conversations that might occur, compare it to the coupling of scissor blades and the benefit of this marriage, remember Henry Miller and Anais Nin.
Minnie and Daniel have spoken before. In all honesty, they kissed at last year’s Christmas party, but Minnie can’t be sure Daniel even remembers that. They were both soused. Just months before Daniel came to work in a T-shirt she recognized as being from her elementary school, and the coincidence was too great for her to keep her mouth shut. She asked where he’d gotten it, expecting to hear he’d happened upon it in a thrift store. Instead she learned that he’d just stopped seeing a girl Minnie had gone to school with. She did the math and discovered Daniel and his girlfriend must have still been together when he and Minnie had shared that kiss last December. Since then they’d nodded to each other when passing and occasionally eaten lunch together.
Think meeting someone and realizing they’ve lived in the building next door to you for years, compare it to the drone of the emergency broadcast system, remember the fear of being buried by the possibility of words and being scared into silence.
Minnie had been sitting in the lunch room a few weeks ago. Daniel sat down with a Hot Pocket and asked her, “Do you read?” Minnie knew he knew she read and was a snob about words and their usage. Minnie had been crowned “The Queen of the Red Pens” for the way she hacked at the advertising copy. Minnie knew he expected her to say, “Of course,” so instead she said, “Never.” She couldn’t hold it though and her disgusted scowl collapsed into a broad grin. He told her he’d just read The Unbearable Lightness of Being and he was thinking of starting a company book group. She nodded, seemingly indifferent, but as soon as she got home that night, she ordered the book. When it arrived she read it in one night. It may have been that she knew as soon as she read it she would have a reason to talk to him again. However, the thought of speaking to him, let alone coming up with intelligent things to say about a book, terrified her. Several months earlier she’d decided she needed to read all of the books on her shelf she’d been meaning to get around to. Each night she made her dinner and settled into the couch until she’d finished or fallen asleep, but sleep had been elusive lately. The books were an excuse to ignore the problem.
Think deliberation disguised as psychosis, compare it to scoffing at laughter from the apartment next door, remember the claustrophobia of a syllogism.
Back in the smoky, moist barroom, Minnie receives the response to her inquiry: a shoulder shrug and a smirk from Daniel.
Think of it as a metaphor for the future of this relationship, compare people who are smart to the ones who are hungry, remember that time your ex-boyfriend called you masochistic and how it made you feel accomplished.
Minnie shakes her head and walks away from his cryptic and lackluster response. An hour later she sits in a booth with coworkers and they are screaming along to some song that she loved when she was a teenager. They’re dancing in their seats — violently enough that they will feel an unfamiliar twist in their backs tomorrow. Daniel sits down next to her and grabs her hand and plants his face inches from hers. Minnie stops singing, but Daniel goes on. He sings and sings and Minnie manages to maintain both eye contact and her cool until the guitar part comes up and he leans in to whisper, “I bet I can freak you out.”
Think of being one “yes” short of severely depressed on the online mental health scale, compare it to how you have to collapse as much air as you can from your lungs before you can use an asthma inhaler, remember you haven’t eaten anything but candy canes for the last ninety-six hours.
Minnie doesn’t blink as she says, “Too late.” She is drunk and the heels of her shoes are skinny. She stumbles over him, out of the booth. She’s out the door and on the street before Daniel has even straightened his legs. He catches up as she climbs into a cab and he crawls in after her. This isn’t what Minnie Fishman wants, but she also doesn’t tell him to get out. When they get to her apartment, he tries to follow her and she says, without looking at him, “Let me know when you get home safely.”
Think about all that business touting medium as message, compare it to statues whittled away to their craggy essence at the art museum, remember shouting, “Just kiss her already” at the movie screen.
Back in her apartment, Minnie crawls into a leotard and huge black pants. She’s too keyed up to sleep. She puts some music on and dances, low to the ground and primitive. The phone breaks the flow.
Think how words become benign in languages you don’t know, compare it to the satisfaction of a twist ending, remember smashing your forearm against the doorknob accidentally and admiring the deep shades of the bruise.
“Minnie?” Daniel says. She asks if he got home okay, and of course he did. Daniel tells Minnie how happy he is they left. He tells her he can’t stand being around people lately but that he felt like he had to go to the work party, to put in an appearance and see if his feelings had changed. Minnie silently hates him for being the same as her, wishes neither of them were this self-centered. Her body bends to the memorized height of her couch cushions. They talk for an hour, and then Daniel asks Minnie what she’s doing. Minnie doesn’t answer. He knows. “Do you want to go to the Golden Nugget? I’m starving.” She says, “Just let me get my jacket,” and hangs up without waiting for details. Finally, she feels powerful.
Think the fulfillment of peeling dried glue off your hands, compare it to a reverse-reverse psychology, remember that your definition of criticizing ads has always been to underline the phrases you like and the words you don’t.
Minnie waits outside her building twenty minutes later, face scrubbed clean and her tousled hair scraped into a neat ponytail. Clear and flat. He pulls up in his blue car, hubcaps gone. Minnie climbs into the car, the stereo playing cheesy pop, not what she expected. They drive and listen to the music, and in a minute the CD stops. “Happens in the cold,” Daniel says. They ride the rest of the way getting by on grunts and quick exhalations. Both are overcome with nerve and reservation because they know the truth of the noises the other is emitting. They pull into the lot and no one moves.
Think of the tense of your calves before you jump in the shark tank, compare it to red eyes showing up in photographs, remember the definite end to the warmth from the heaters of this ’93 Grand Am when its engine is off.