The adrenaline that was coursing through his body a few seconds ago dissipates into dread, tepid and stagnant.
Ari looks down at the plate and pokes at the lettuce with her fork. Her shoulders start to shake. When she finally looks up, her eyes are spilling over with tears. “Is there more to me than bong vapor and nipple piercings?”
“Ari.” He modulates his voice into something soft. “That’s a ridiculous question.”
“I was supposed to be her muse,” she says, her voice drained of all levity.
“That sounds very convenient for her but you’re not her love interest. You’re not the character without a personality who only exists to make someone else seem desirable.” Josh picks up his soup spoon. “That’s not you.”
“You’re right. I’m supposed to be the person who’s happier being alone.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t be here right now,” he points out.
Her chest heaves and she can’t swallow down a sob. “How are they engaged?” Two more whimpers and tears start to fall. “When you love someone y-you don’t just erase them—”
Her face crumples; in a second, she’s full-on bawling into the salad.
He’s seen Ari wavering on the precipice of tears, but she’d always managed to hold them back.
“I-I’m not even sure I wanted to get married. I did it for her. She wanted that official commitment. Somebodylovedme and I was finally on the inside of this circle.” Her breathing stutters and the sentences come out in a torrent. “I tried to be whatshe w-wanted because it felt so good when she was happy with me. All that bullshit about anarchy and demolishing hierarchy had nothing to do with it. She just didn’t wantmeanymore.” She chokes on a sob. “I hate myself for it. I’m s-so lonely and I don’t want to cry about it because if I let myself cry, I won’t stop. I know i-it wasn’t working, so why am I—” She gasps like she needs to refill her lungs. “I don’t cry. I d-don’t—”
There’s a series of desperate, gasping inhales with no release.
Ari pushes the salad to the side and lays her head down over her arms and continues to cry.
In another timeline, Josh instinctively reaches out his hand to touch her hand. He jumps out of his chair and rushes to the other side of the table. He embraces her hunched shoulders and whispers soothing platitudes into her ear.
But in this reality, he’s still unsure whether he has an actual role to play here. He settles for moving his foot so that it pushes gently against her boot. She’s not tapping against the floor anymore.
Slowly, he slides his bowl of matzo ball soup across the table in front of her.
When Ari lifts her head, she’s red in the face, cheeks damp, what’s left of her eyeliner streaking across her temples. Her brow furrows, like she’s confused about why he’s still there. But she sucks in a breath, picks up the spoon, and bisects the matzo ball.
“Thank you,” she mutters, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
He passes her a stack of napkins.
“Don’t be nice to me.” She blows her nose. “It’s making me feel worse.”
“You’re the only person I’m nice to. If you weren’t around, I’d have no redeeming qualities.”
Ari dabs at the outer corners of her eyes with a napkin.
“You don’t want to witness this. I’m going to cry until I’m dehydrated, smoke a bowl, and fall asleep with my hand inside a bag of Takis. It’s my process, I’ve been refining it over many years.” She slices the other matzo ball.
Josh watches her swallow another spoonful of soup. How is it possible to be so goddamn frustrated with someone, while also wanting her to close her eyes and rest her head on your shoulder?
“Jewish penicillin,” he says. “It cures anything.”
“Grief?” She slurps on the broth. “Self-loathing?”
“No.” He collects a thick stack of napkins. “You have to order the borscht for that.”
15
Sat, Dec 31, 9:13p.m.
Josh:ETA?
