“I really think of us assensation artists. It doesn’t have to be apleasantsensation, mind you. I am more thrilled by a revulsed audience than a quote-satisfied-unquote one.”
“I think it’s a fun excuse for our friends to get together. Some groups do Dungeons and Dragons. We do performance art.”
J asks the secret to the longevity of their relationship.
“Honesty,” Skye says.
“Sharing!” Detroit replies. “Which, in our case, is the same as honesty.”
Detroit is now comfortable, in his element. Even though there are no cocktails present, Detroit talks as if to the whole bar. J is reminded of the missing cat, hiding somewhere in the apartment. Perhaps Skye, too, would feel better in another room.
J turns to address only Skye. “What’s the most romantic thing Detroit has done for you?”
Skye looks at him, startled for a second. Then, to J’s dismay, Skye bursts into tears, soon followed by apologies.
Detroit doesn’t move from the couch. J offers up a tissue from a box on the side table.
“Thank you,” Skye says. “I guess I wasn’t prepared for that one. I just—it’s almost impossible to explain. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a bad place—I mean, a really bad, dark place. The kind of place where you wake up and you have no money, no pride, no possibilities, and you realize you gave up your dreams so long ago that all they can do now is taunt you. That’s where I was. Stuck in a basement apartment with a guy I hated so much, hating myself even more. I had this panic attack—I just woke up and my heart was pounding and the only thing I could think was,This is it. You are going to die here. But something in me pushed back and said, no, that would just be too sad, too much of a waste. So I got up—I’d been sleeping through the days—and I put on my favorite outfit and I left. I had no idea where I was going, or even if I was ever going to come back. I went to a bar, because of course I went to a bar. And right there onstage is this foul-mouthed bruiser, this defiant motherfucker, and he is taking on the whole crowd. Like, ripping right through it mercilessly. Making fun of their clothes, their laughter, their drinks. But then Detroit gets to me, really sees me and where I am, and he holds back. Even if it ruins all the momentum. Even if it makes people uneasy. The crowd is waiting for the punchline, you know? But instead Detroit says to me, ‘This too shall pass. Because you and me—we’re going to send it on its way.’ And that...well, that was the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.From anyone. I stayed around until the bar closed that night. And I moved in here the next day.” Skye stops for a second, takes a deep breath, composes themself. “I’m sorry again about the tears. I still think about it all the time.”
“Because lord knows I haven’t said a romantic word since!” Detroit chimes in. Not as caustic as before. A little gentler.
“And how about you?” J asks. “What’s the most romantic thing Skye has done for you?”
“Skye humors me,” Detroit answers. “They make me feel both adoredandadorned. I mean, look at me—they’ve made me so many scarves, I can’t bear to go out without at least five of them on. One wouldn’t be enough. I want as much of them with me as possible!”
J often follows this question by asking the couple what their greatest fear is. But he’s afraid he will only make Skye feel worse. So instead he asks to see more of Skye’s creations, and this ends up being the right path to take. Both Detroit and Skye get to their feet, and soon there’s a parade of garments, from scarves to coats, silk shirts that flow like dresses and capes that would make even the stampedest bull stop and admire the handiwork before charging. When they’re done, the room has been returned to what J imagines is its usual state of chaos. Skye looks around and is mildly horrified, but before they can say anything, J tells them this has been a remarkably helpful afternoon.
J yawns, then rushes to assure his hosts that the yawn is from the jet lag, not the company.
Skye walks him to the door, and they arrange a meeting time for a walk-through of the performance space the next afternoon. J is surprised when Skye gives him a full hug goodbye—surprised to have deserved it, and also surprised by how nice it feels, because once again, it seems led by Skye’s sincerity.
It’s only later in the evening, when J’s body can’t decide which time zone’s rules it wants to play by, that his mind unspoolseverything from the interview. Skye was right about “seeing other people,” and with a tremor, J wonders if that will come up in his conversation with V. He also steps back and observes Skye and Detroit’s overall dynamic; clearly, theirs is a relationship based on Detroit having “saved” Skye. J wonders whether any relationship built on rescue can work in the long run. This is not, luckily, a problem he and V have. They’ve helped each other, yes. Supported each other. But saved? Hardly.
J does not wonder if this is because neither of them has needed saving...or if it’s because they each lack the capacity to save anyone besides themselves.
J is up before dawn.
Not for the first time, he wishes he were a runner, because these excess mornings that come from traveling westward would be perfect for sprinting through foreign cities, pounding the pavement while it is still free and clear.
Running would also distract him, because he is nervous about seeing V, nervous about whatever circuitous route their own conversation may take. He is not a fool, and he doesn’t expect that V will take one look at him and melt into his arms, telling him that his presence has made her realize how wrong her distance has been. V would never reduce herself to that puddle, and that is—trickily enough—one of the reasons he likes her so much. The best he can hope for here is not capitulation, but détente. “Here’s to a warming of our relations” is not a lyric he’s ever written, but it wouldn’t be entirely out of place in his oeuvre. But V isn’t going to be won over by song or wordplay. No, she’ll be won over by...well, he’s not exactly sure what, really.
And notwon over,he reminds himself. Détente.
He goes out for coffee, but none of the coffee shops are open yet. He settles for an all-hour bodega’s lukewarm brew. Back in Julia’s apartment, he starts to work on the songs for Detroit and Skye,happy to lose himself in other people’s stories, not understanding (or not wanting to understand) that working on other people’s stories will inevitably bring him back to his own, even in something as short as a song.
By the time the clock tells him to get ready to meet V, he’s ready for a nap. Instead, he rallies, and follows his phone as it tells him how to get to the subway station and which subway to take. Then he follows his phone some more, from the station to the front of V’s Midtown office, a place so anonymous he forgets it even as he’s looking at it. He texts her to say he’s here; he’s three minutes early and she says she’ll be down in seven.
In this case, seven means ten, which results in J having ten minutes to imagine each burst of elevator release will contain V in its midst. He begins to speculate on what the first moment of their reunion will be like. A hug? A kiss? Speechless wonder? Whether because of jet lag or recent events, his imagination is acting as if they are young lovers being reunited after years apart, even though neither of them is that young, and it’s only been two months.
Also, it’s questionable whether they’re still lovers.
When she finally appears, something is decidedly different about her. He can’t pinpoint it, but it’s drawn from a combination of the fact that he rarely thinks of her with makeup on and the presence of a new wardrobe she bought for herself in New York, having only packed for a stay of a couple of weeks. Even her jacket, thrown over her arm, is new.
He wants her to smile when she sees him. Cut to the swell of the soundtrack, the small tear in the audience’s eye. Even a subtle gasp, a tremor of recognition, would be satisfying. But instead, she looks like he’s a deliveryman, here to hand her the salad she’s ordered.
She kisses him, but it’s quick, too quick. “We only have an hour, so I booked a table in a place nearby,” she says as she pulls away. “It’s Greek—I hope that’s okay.”
“That’s wonderful,” J tells her. “And it’s wonderful to see you.”
