J leans in so the bartender won’t hear. “You know how most people pour their cereal into the bowl before they pour the milk? Well, I—”
“No, seriously. What’s your major malfunction? What part of your internet history do you delete?”
J pulls back. “Oh.”
The woman relaxes her posture and adjusts her barstool like clock hands switching from twelve to three, so she can face J directly. “Take your time.” She reaches for her drink and takes a sip.
J doesn’t tell her there’s no reason to delete internet history if you’re the only person who knows the passcode to the laptop. That isn’t the answer she’s looking for.
He takes too long. She says, “First thought, best thought.”
“I used to have a lot of separation anxiety.”
“When?”
“When I was a kid. I used to worry so much that something bad would happen to the people I loved. As far as I was concerned, the minute they walked out the door, a car would hit them, or an anvil would fall from the sky, or they would get shot by a bullet meant for someone else.”
“But then you got over it?”
“I guess so. I think I became a bit scared of being close to anyone after that. I didn’t like what it did to me. I didn’t like how much it made me worry.”
“What else?”
J smiles, briefly. “I’m a bit of a martyr. I do a lot of things for others that I don’t want to do, and then I go around and mope about it. The moping is highly enjoyable to me. It’s almost erotic.”
He has her full attention now. She isn’t faking. This interest is real.
“Keep going,” she tells him.
The adrenaline of performing is still coursing through J. The fact that he can now see her eyes through her sunglasses makes this conversation feel more vivid. He knows he is in a free-associative state, but he’s not trying to cage it.
“I feel for humans. Perhaps too much.”
The woman takes another sip of her drink. A thoughtful sip. Then she puts her glass on the bar and says, “You know, you had me at separation anxiety. That part was cute. But universal empathy is asking for a lot of allowances.”
J understands this as the challenge that it is. In reply, he picks up her drink, takes a sip, and asks, “Okay, fine—what about you? Map out your damage for me.”
The woman’s expression doesn’t change as she folds one arm over the other, unintentionally making it look like the straitjacket is tied.
“I am very impulsive, especially when talking to men dressed in rubber,” she says, but with a tone that takes the edge off of any impulsiveness. “I don’t think very highly of men because our father left our family to join the circus when I was six. Which is also the reason I think every man I love will leave me. My parents hated each other so I don’t believe in marriage. I’m the youngest of four siblings—no, five. Actually, make it six. My parents probably ran out of names by the time I was born. I suspect I was named after a brand of canned vegetables. The one with the yellow label—are you familiar with the brand? I’m sure you can find cans in bomb shelters around the country. When I asked my mother where the name came from, she looked like someone who’d been caught in a lifelong lie. In this case, my life. She muttered something about liking the sound of it. But that’s just bullshit. It’s a dirge of a name, hardly melodic. But you’d know that, being a singer.”
“It seems like you’ve thoroughly analyzed yourself,” J observes.
“Well, I couldn’t afford therapy, so I had to do it my own way.”
“More money for straitjackets.”
The woman raises her glass. “Only the finest of straitjackets.”
She takes a sip, then passes the glass to J. He doesn’t even like vodka cranberry, but he takes another sip anyway.
She continues. “I appreciate you didn’t try to tell me my name was melodic.”
“And I appreciate your respect for men in rubber. Also, I have a confession.”
“Another?”
“Yes. Another.”
