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I like waiting for you in our room, where it’s quiet and no one but you and I know where the door is. The moon hangs perfectly in the window as though you told it to be there, a director blocking actors up and down, left and right. All night long we ebb and flow between asleep and awake, always a little bit of both, like when the moon and the sun are sharing the stage. We look at the walls and recall the acquired paintings, hanging low and high, each one a marker of the past. My favorite is the one you hung one day when I wasn’t looking, the ship at sea, the storm bringing it in. We lie in bed and we look up at our walls and though there are no clocks in our room, each frame represents a moment in time, and this is how we recall the past.
〰️
I like waiting for you in our room, where it’s quiet and no one but you and I know where the door is. The moon hangs perfectly in the window as though you told it to be there, a director blocking actors up and down, left and right. All night long we ebb and flow between asleep and awake, always a little bit of both, like when the moon and the sun are sharing the stage. We look at the walls and recall the acquired paintings, hanging low and high, each one a marker of the past. My favorite is the one you hung one day when I wasn’t looking, the ship at sea, the storm bringing it in. We lie in bed and we look up at our walls and though there are no clocks in our room, each frame represents a moment in time, and this is how we recall the past. 〰️
It started, like a lot of things in her life that would never leave her, when she was seventeen. Nina’s friends had decided to dress alike on Fridays, and that they would decide the night before, and that it would be different each week. Before she went to bed on Thursday night, Margot, who was more or less the leader of the friend group, sent a message out to everyone, a single word. Blue. What she chose were loose cerulean sweats and an azure t-shirt, clothes at the back of her closet, at the bottom of her drawer, too affectless to regularly incorporate into her wardrobe, their condition unused and therefore disallowed by her parents to toss out. In the kitchen, her mom couldn’t let the outfit go un-commented upon. ‘Does it have any significance?’ Nina, heading out the door, made a sound under her breath. Her parents were always asking for the deeper meaning of things, the reason behind the reason, forever decoding the actions of their oldest daughter. ‘This is just what I’m wearing today,’ she said. And when she showed up to school, Margot and Jackie and Thalia were waiting and watching, and erupted into laughter at the sight of Nina. They were all dressed in their ordinary clothes, un-matching, no one color standing out above the rest. Nina asked them what was up, and Margot said, ‘You thought we were serious?’ That weekend, she went clothes shopping, and she spent the maximum on her pre-paid debit card that her parents had given her for things like clothes and shoes and, in their words, ‘accessories’ — the three things they thought teenage girls would want. They never factored in the intangibles, the things that money couldn’t buy. Every item she came home with was blue, even crew socks and a wristwatch, two things she’d never worn. Her parents, speechless, took the path of least resistance, and said nothing. Nina knew what they were thinking - drugs - because it was always what they were thinking. If she failed an exam or barely passed a class, it had to have been because of drugs. She thought that by wearing only blue she would elicit questions, but what it did was give people a reason to leave her alone. No one mentioned the all-blue clothes, everyone working under the assumption that she was trying to get attention. Margot and Jackie and Thalia gave her an icy blue cold shoulder, and this made her happier than she had thought it would. Tuesday came, and her clothes were still blue, and they were for the rest of the week. And while no one said anything to her, behind her back and online they were talking about her. She stopped looking at TikTok and Instagram, where people were posting photos of blue things and making videos about the color blue, an elaborate way of shit-talking that her parents and Neal, her guidance counselor, would never understand. For the rest of the school year, the color bled from Nina’s wardrobe like new denim, and made its way onto school decorations, and the little things her friends were buying ended up blue, too — phone cases, wooly caps, sneaker laces. Her friends faded into the background, but in return she had gained something else, something bigger. She was now totally associated with the color blue, and it was the only way people associated with her, something from which she could no longer extricate herself. And a year later, when she was entering college, and she was deciding what to wear on her first day, there was only one choice.
〰️
It started, like a lot of things in her life that would never leave her, when she was seventeen. Nina’s friends had decided to dress alike on Fridays, and that they would decide the night before, and that it would be different each week. Before she went to bed on Thursday night, Margot, who was more or less the leader of the friend group, sent a message out to everyone, a single word. Blue. What she chose were loose cerulean sweats and an azure t-shirt, clothes at the back of her closet, at the bottom of her drawer, too affectless to regularly incorporate into her wardrobe, their condition unused and therefore disallowed by her parents to toss out. In the kitchen, her mom couldn’t let the outfit go un-commented upon. ‘Does it have any significance?’ Nina, heading out the door, made a sound under her breath. Her parents were always asking for the deeper meaning of things, the reason behind the reason, forever decoding the actions of their oldest daughter. ‘This is just what I’m wearing today,’ she said. And when she showed up to school, Margot and Jackie and Thalia were waiting and watching, and erupted into laughter at the sight of Nina. They were all dressed in their ordinary clothes, un-matching, no one color standing out above the rest. Nina asked them what was up, and Margot said, ‘You thought we were serious?’ That weekend, she went clothes shopping, and she spent the maximum on her pre-paid debit card that her parents had given her for things like clothes and shoes and, in their words, ‘accessories’ — the three things they thought teenage girls would want. They never factored in the intangibles, the things that money couldn’t buy. Every item she came home with was blue, even crew socks and a wristwatch, two things she’d never worn. Her parents, speechless, took the path of least resistance, and said nothing. Nina knew what they were thinking - drugs - because it was always what they were thinking. If she failed an exam or barely passed a class, it had to have been because of drugs. She thought that by wearing only blue she would elicit questions, but what it did was give people a reason to leave her alone. No one mentioned the all-blue clothes, everyone working under the assumption that she was trying to get attention. Margot and Jackie and Thalia gave her an icy blue cold shoulder, and this made her happier than she had thought it would. Tuesday came, and her clothes were still blue, and they were for the rest of the week. And while no one said anything to her, behind her back and online they were talking about her. She stopped looking at TikTok and Instagram, where people were posting photos of blue things and making videos about the color blue, an elaborate way of shit-talking that her parents and Neal, her guidance counselor, would never understand. For the rest of the school year, the color bled from Nina’s wardrobe like new denim, and made its way onto school decorations, and the little things her friends were buying ended up blue, too — phone cases, wooly caps, sneaker laces. Her friends faded into the background, but in return she had gained something else, something bigger. She was now totally associated with the color blue, and it was the only way people associated with her, something from which she could no longer extricate herself. And a year later, when she was entering college, and she was deciding what to wear on her first day, there was only one choice. 〰️
Nell and Oliver were planning a trip to Strasbourg and she asked me to have coffee with her one afternoon so I could give her recommendations for the city, and the region as well, as it was their first time in that part of France, and she knew that I’d recently been within the last few months. I still remembered the name of various neighborhoods we’d strolled and the imposing, gothic churches in which we’d milled, even though big European churches all look the same to me, and I don’t even know what is gothic and what isn’t, it was just a vibe, and she understood was I was saying. I shared with her the phone number for the tour guide who’d taken us around on bicycles, and the ferry tour we’d taken along the River Ill to see the European Parliament building. And then, I added, self-consciously, that I had happened to have the best burger of my life at a place whose name I could never forget: Pianogrill. She took down this recommendation, too, though I doubted she would ever believe me. She and Oliver were snobs about foods — where they went out and where they bought their ingredients. But it really did happen to be the best burger I’d ever eaten, with a brie fondant, which is the only ingredient detail I remember from a menu written exclusively in French, which I appreciated, because when I was traveling to a country whose primary language was not English I liked stumbling into walls of native tongue. It felt good to not know where I was going, even with a map on my phone, to know that something about my nature hadn’t been considered. I forgot all about my and Nell’s conversation about Strasbourg until a month later when she texted me a photo of a clean plate at a bistro table outside that I recommended. Totally the clean plate club, she texted. This text - especially the photo - became important, because it was one of the last messages she’d sent anyone before disappearing. We all discovered that Nell had flown to France alone, on a one-way ticket, around the time that Oliver shared, too, that she had gone, that he had never been a part of the plan, despite what she’d told me. Years have passed, and every once in a while authorities revisit me to talk about my and Nell’s last meeting — what we ate, what we drank, and more importantly what we talked about, and each time, I’ve tried to excavate that memory for some tension between her and Oliver, a harmony to the melody of our conversation. No one ever cares that she took my restaurant recommendation, and more specifically the recommendation of the burger. It never meant anything to anyone but me and, honestly, I still don’t know why. I only know that it matters somehow, and that I’ll always be wondering.
〰️
Nell and Oliver were planning a trip to Strasbourg and she asked me to have coffee with her one afternoon so I could give her recommendations for the city, and the region as well, as it was their first time in that part of France, and she knew that I’d recently been within the last few months. I still remembered the name of various neighborhoods we’d strolled and the imposing, gothic churches in which we’d milled, even though big European churches all look the same to me, and I don’t even know what is gothic and what isn’t, it was just a vibe, and she understood was I was saying. I shared with her the phone number for the tour guide who’d taken us around on bicycles, and the ferry tour we’d taken along the River Ill to see the European Parliament building. And then, I added, self-consciously, that I had happened to have the best burger of my life at a place whose name I could never forget: Pianogrill. She took down this recommendation, too, though I doubted she would ever believe me. She and Oliver were snobs about foods — where they went out and where they bought their ingredients. But it really did happen to be the best burger I’d ever eaten, with a brie fondant, which is the only ingredient detail I remember from a menu written exclusively in French, which I appreciated, because when I was traveling to a country whose primary language was not English I liked stumbling into walls of native tongue. It felt good to not know where I was going, even with a map on my phone, to know that something about my nature hadn’t been considered. I forgot all about my and Nell’s conversation about Strasbourg until a month later when she texted me a photo of a clean plate at a bistro table outside that I recommended. Totally the clean plate club, she texted. This text - especially the photo - became important, because it was one of the last messages she’d sent anyone before disappearing. We all discovered that Nell had flown to France alone, on a one-way ticket, around the time that Oliver shared, too, that she had gone, that he had never been a part of the plan, despite what she’d told me. Years have passed, and every once in a while authorities revisit me to talk about my and Nell’s last meeting — what we ate, what we drank, and more importantly what we talked about, and each time, I’ve tried to excavate that memory for some tension between her and Oliver, a harmony to the melody of our conversation. No one ever cares that she took my restaurant recommendation, and more specifically the recommendation of the burger. It never meant anything to anyone but me and, honestly, I still don’t know why. I only know that it matters somehow, and that I’ll always be wondering. 〰️
On its best days the TV that my dad put in my room would receive the network affiliates in decent color, no static, and I could sit anywhere I wanted and watch whatever was playing, though what remained for me during the times I stole with it felt like consuming leftovers. Its brand name still sits on a throne in my mind — Magnavox, like an ancient declaration still echoing in my memory. But other days it refused to cooperate with me, or forced me to stand there holding the rabbit ears, as though I had been tasked with doing its bidding. I didn’t know then that it didn’t have to be this way, that other kids had TVs with digital signals, interior antennae. It no longer matters now what I watched but rather that I was allowed to watch something at all, that the world was beamed into me somehow through the asphalt shingles and brick exterior of my childhood home, in the little bedroom where whatever scraps of TV I could collect sustained me from one day to the next. Eventually it left my life, replaced by something brighter, and I was a little dumber for it. And then everything happened so fast. Something better replaced something better, and then I was out of that bedroom, out of that house, states away from the days of gratefulness. I say all this because, sometimes, the word Magnavox returns to me like the name of an old teacher, or a dream I’d given up on, and I wonder if there is any room left in that little room in my mind for me to return to, squinting at the visual snow and hoping for a signal. Whenever it finds me again, and whatever it brings me, I’ll be glad for it.
〰️
On its best days the TV that my dad put in my room would receive the network affiliates in decent color, no static, and I could sit anywhere I wanted and watch whatever was playing, though what remained for me during the times I stole with it felt like consuming leftovers. Its brand name still sits on a throne in my mind — Magnavox, like an ancient declaration still echoing in my memory. But other days it refused to cooperate with me, or forced me to stand there holding the rabbit ears, as though I had been tasked with doing its bidding. I didn’t know then that it didn’t have to be this way, that other kids had TVs with digital signals, interior antennae. It no longer matters now what I watched but rather that I was allowed to watch something at all, that the world was beamed into me somehow through the asphalt shingles and brick exterior of my childhood home, in the little bedroom where whatever scraps of TV I could collect sustained me from one day to the next. Eventually it left my life, replaced by something brighter, and I was a little dumber for it. And then everything happened so fast. Something better replaced something better, and then I was out of that bedroom, out of that house, states away from the days of gratefulness. I say all this because, sometimes, the word Magnavox returns to me like the name of an old teacher, or a dream I’d given up on, and I wonder if there is any room left in that little room in my mind for me to return to, squinting at the visual snow and hoping for a signal. Whenever it finds me again, and whatever it brings me, I’ll be glad for it. 〰️
On Sunday, Julia messaged me saying she was thinking about me. The last time I had heard from her was her declaration that she never wanted to talk to me again. Then Nicole called me out of the blue, and I didn’t answer. I was just wondering about you, the message started, and I was relieved that this time, she wasn’t yelling at me. I thought that maybe I was just lucky, that there was something in the alignment of the stars or the phase of the moon that had opened the hearts of a couple of my exes, until I saw people posting about similar occurrences online, that it was the collective result of a new drug called Limerent. As I read more about it, my initial confusion about how I hadn’t known about this was replaced by a familiar feeling, that Limerent was - like the drama on reality shows or the goings-on with professional football - something millions of people knew about but had somehow escaped me. But now I was part of it. I was a symptom that people in my life were trying to cure. And I let it go, and I didn’t respond to Julia or Nicole, because I felt like these were fleeting moments in the lives of people I shouldn’t interact with anymore, like drunk texts at 2 a.m., messages that might be regretted later, and I tried to put it behind me, that is, until I was making the bed one day and found, on the floor of our bedroom, on my wife’s side of the bed, a bottle of Limerent, 200mg, with her doctor’s instruction to take once daily, and I couldn’t help but wonder who, exactly, was my wife trying to rid herself of.
〰️
On Sunday, Julia messaged me saying she was thinking about me. The last time I had heard from her was her declaration that she never wanted to talk to me again. Then Nicole called me out of the blue, and I didn’t answer. I was just wondering about you, the message started, and I was relieved that this time, she wasn’t yelling at me. I thought that maybe I was just lucky, that there was something in the alignment of the stars or the phase of the moon that had opened the hearts of a couple of my exes, until I saw people posting about similar occurrences online, that it was the collective result of a new drug called Limerent. As I read more about it, my initial confusion about how I hadn’t known about this was replaced by a familiar feeling, that Limerent was - like the drama on reality shows or the goings-on with professional football - something millions of people knew about but had somehow escaped me. But now I was part of it. I was a symptom that people in my life were trying to cure. And I let it go, and I didn’t respond to Julia or Nicole, because I felt like these were fleeting moments in the lives of people I shouldn’t interact with anymore, like drunk texts at 2 a.m., messages that might be regretted later, and I tried to put it behind me, that is, until I was making the bed one day and found, on the floor of our bedroom, on my wife’s side of the bed, a bottle of Limerent, 200mg, with her doctor’s instruction to take once daily, and I couldn’t help but wonder who, exactly, was my wife trying to rid herself of. 〰️
I saw it at the last second, when Bianca and I were about to leave the store, let’s go, we’ve been thrifting all afternoon, our feet are tired, can we just go home and open a bottle of wine. She’d managed to find enough things to fill two paper bags, but I had still been holding out for something I couldn’t quite locate in my mind, an ineffable purchase that would call to me when I saw it. And then it did. An AIWA boombox, it could only have been from 1993. I picked it up and it was like stretching a muscle I’d forgotten. My fingertips felt its once-smooth curves, now scratched by the hands of time. It was almost identical to the one I’d had growing up. I could never forget the way it sounded. The speakers of the boombox had always made the music sound as though it were happening from a distance. Each song sounded secondhand, radio hits like hand-me-down clothes. Back then I hated it, and wished for the stereos in my friends’ possession, but now, standing there with Bianca, looking at it, I had never been drawn to an object so profoundly as I was in that moment. I carried it over to an outlet to plug it in. I took a CD from the shelf of forgotten jewel cases, and I played Boyz II Men. The quality of the music startled me. It was clearer and brighter than I had given it credit for. I turned it up. Bianca asked if we could leave. I brought my ear to the speakers, the way I had when I was twelve. I closed my eyes. It was speaking to me. Bianca walked out and said she’d see me on the sidewalk. I didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to go anywhere. I didn’t even want to take it home. To do so would have broken its spell, and it would have been one more thing in our apartment, its context absorbed by Bianca’s and my collective taste. I stayed by the boombox until I had heard everything from the past that I had needed to hear, and then I left.
〰️
I saw it at the last second, when Bianca and I were about to leave the store, let’s go, we’ve been thrifting all afternoon, our feet are tired, can we just go home and open a bottle of wine. She’d managed to find enough things to fill two paper bags, but I had still been holding out for something I couldn’t quite locate in my mind, an ineffable purchase that would call to me when I saw it. And then it did. An AIWA boombox, it could only have been from 1993. I picked it up and it was like stretching a muscle I’d forgotten. My fingertips felt its once-smooth curves, now scratched by the hands of time. It was almost identical to the one I’d had growing up. I could never forget the way it sounded. The speakers of the boombox had always made the music sound as though it were happening from a distance. Each song sounded secondhand, radio hits like hand-me-down clothes. Back then I hated it, and wished for the stereos in my friends’ possession, but now, standing there with Bianca, looking at it, I had never been drawn to an object so profoundly as I was in that moment. I carried it over to an outlet to plug it in. I took a CD from the shelf of forgotten jewel cases, and I played Boyz II Men. The quality of the music startled me. It was clearer and brighter than I had given it credit for. I turned it up. Bianca asked if we could leave. I brought my ear to the speakers, the way I had when I was twelve. I closed my eyes. It was speaking to me. Bianca walked out and said she’d see me on the sidewalk. I didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to go anywhere. I didn’t even want to take it home. To do so would have broken its spell, and it would have been one more thing in our apartment, its context absorbed by Bianca’s and my collective taste. I stayed by the boombox until I had heard everything from the past that I had needed to hear, and then I left. 〰️
They either get it or they don’t. Next to me is a text panel that tests the patience of those who want to hurry. But those who get it pause and read the paragraphs. I read their lips. They either know who David Hockney is or they don’t. I’m composed of spring pastels and the deepening hues of summer blue and the terra cotta of a hot and drawn-out day. There is a splash, yes, and no one questions the title, wonders if this is a bigger splash, then where is the smaller one? They either linger or they don’t. Those who linger keep me company, and I can see in their eyes the envy of the moment — the pool, the impossibly colored sky, the dive unseen in its watery aftermath. They either wonder who is under the surface of the water or they don’t, never curious what’s underneath my colors, the underpainting that I can feel. Here, on my canvas skin, is the smaller splash, the origin, the beginning lost to time. They either see it or they don’t.
〰️
They either get it or they don’t. Next to me is a text panel that tests the patience of those who want to hurry. But those who get it pause and read the paragraphs. I read their lips. They either know who David Hockney is or they don’t. I’m composed of spring pastels and the deepening hues of summer blue and the terra cotta of a hot and drawn-out day. There is a splash, yes, and no one questions the title, wonders if this is a bigger splash, then where is the smaller one? They either linger or they don’t. Those who linger keep me company, and I can see in their eyes the envy of the moment — the pool, the impossibly colored sky, the dive unseen in its watery aftermath. They either wonder who is under the surface of the water or they don’t, never curious what’s underneath my colors, the underpainting that I can feel. Here, on my canvas skin, is the smaller splash, the origin, the beginning lost to time. They either see it or they don’t. 〰️
This was after everyone had died. It was the only thing that made sense to do. ‘Alden.’ ‘Libby.’ Julie and her mother walked through the maternity ward of the hospital. They stopped and looked through the window and they selected names for each of the babies. ‘Quinn,’ Julie said, pointing to a baby girl. ‘Hox.’ Her mother traced her Catholic finger on the fiberglass. ‘H-O-X.’ ‘Hox? Mom, that’s not a name.’ This was after they’d buried everyone. Mother and daughter never spoke of death again, nor did they speak of fathers and husbands, men who left early or died early, men who died in storms or men who died alone. They did not talk about the past and Julie did not ask about her mother’s previous life in Massachusetts nor did she explore the scope of her mother’s memory. ‘Marie. The girl giggling.’ ‘Henri if you’re talking French names. The boy next to her. They walked through shopping malls and sat by coin-filled water fountains. Julie asked why there were always palm leaves in the water when there were no palm trees nearby. They talk about their mutual love of comfortable shoes, neutral temperatures and strangers who nodded hello. They talked about Chanel No. 5 and The Gap. Julie drove to her mother’s house every night and they watched TV while they ate dinners on prim laps and spoke during commercials for better food and bigger TVs. This was after they’d moved out of their old houses and into their new houses, places that no longer smelled like their respective husbands, where linoleum replaced porcelain and Formica replaced granite. Interior lives had been traded for exterior lives.
〰️
This was after everyone had died. It was the only thing that made sense to do. ‘Alden.’ ‘Libby.’ Julie and her mother walked through the maternity ward of the hospital. They stopped and looked through the window and they selected names for each of the babies. ‘Quinn,’ Julie said, pointing to a baby girl. ‘Hox.’ Her mother traced her Catholic finger on the fiberglass. ‘H-O-X.’ ‘Hox? Mom, that’s not a name.’ This was after they’d buried everyone. Mother and daughter never spoke of death again, nor did they speak of fathers and husbands, men who left early or died early, men who died in storms or men who died alone. They did not talk about the past and Julie did not ask about her mother’s previous life in Massachusetts nor did she explore the scope of her mother’s memory. ‘Marie. The girl giggling.’ ‘Henri if you’re talking French names. The boy next to her. They walked through shopping malls and sat by coin-filled water fountains. Julie asked why there were always palm leaves in the water when there were no palm trees nearby. They talk about their mutual love of comfortable shoes, neutral temperatures and strangers who nodded hello. They talked about Chanel No. 5 and The Gap. Julie drove to her mother’s house every night and they watched TV while they ate dinners on prim laps and spoke during commercials for better food and bigger TVs. This was after they’d moved out of their old houses and into their new houses, places that no longer smelled like their respective husbands, where linoleum replaced porcelain and Formica replaced granite. Interior lives had been traded for exterior lives. 〰️
April Fool’s Day. Second-grade teachers. Classrooms of any kind. Pranks, in general. The laughter of a group of children. The smell of chalk. When someone has a broken nose in a movie. Any window cleaner with ammonia. The list goes on. Cervical collars. Red strings. Anything that anyone can trip on — anyone, tripping, ever. The sound of someone in sudden pain. Any number of these things can bring me back to what I did that day in Mrs. Schultz’s class for a laugh. Especially laughter.
〰️
April Fool’s Day. Second-grade teachers. Classrooms of any kind. Pranks, in general. The laughter of a group of children. The smell of chalk. When someone has a broken nose in a movie. Any window cleaner with ammonia. The list goes on. Cervical collars. Red strings. Anything that anyone can trip on — anyone, tripping, ever. The sound of someone in sudden pain. Any number of these things can bring me back to what I did that day in Mrs. Schultz’s class for a laugh. Especially laughter. 〰️
If he had been a dog she would have adopted him. He boarded her bus every day, halfway between her house and the block where her office was. Always sat in the same spot, near the front, where no one seemed to want to sit. Every morning, she stepped off the bus, wondering if he was looking at her, if he was thinking about her, and then she always watched from the sidewalk as the bus took him further into his day. Today, though, something tugged at her to stay seated when she normally got off the bus. She stopped, sat back down, and listened to the voice. It had been a long time since it had spoken to her, or a long time since she’d listened. But now, as her bus drove past her office building, she looked ahead and watched him, curious, and determined to go where he went.
〰️
If he had been a dog she would have adopted him. He boarded her bus every day, halfway between her house and the block where her office was. Always sat in the same spot, near the front, where no one seemed to want to sit. Every morning, she stepped off the bus, wondering if he was looking at her, if he was thinking about her, and then she always watched from the sidewalk as the bus took him further into his day. Today, though, something tugged at her to stay seated when she normally got off the bus. She stopped, sat back down, and listened to the voice. It had been a long time since it had spoken to her, or a long time since she’d listened. But now, as her bus drove past her office building, she looked ahead and watched him, curious, and determined to go where he went. 〰️
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