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Arrows, like words, once darted, do not return.
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—Armenian Proverb
I squeeze pasta group of rowdy tech boys and a waitress dressed in a traditional German folk costume, similar to the one I own, thanks to a gift from my boyfriend, Trevor, and the beer maiden fetish he won’t admit he has. Polka music blasts through the speakers. Patrons are pounding on tables and singing. The stuffiness in this restaurant is second only to sitting in a hot car with all the doors and windows shut.
I’m late to meet Trevor, but what else is new? It’s hard to pull away from my family and the bonds of duty (in this case, setting up for my cousin Diana’s bridal shower). My hands are aching from handling bushels of thorny crinkle roses and darting them into flower arrangements. I rub them together, hoping for some relief.
I spot Trevor. He’s tapping wildly at his phone, wearing his work-concentration face, which is impressive because we are in the midst of a sausage-fest polka party. He’s sporting his usualprecisionAmerican Psychohair (his words, not mine) and is wearing a quarter-zip pullover even though it’s a million degrees. He looks every part the hot evil San Francisco tech lawyer he is, minus the evil, because Trevor is a teddy bear who just happens to enjoy following the letter of the law of patents. I slam into the seat opposite him and immediately shout my apologies.
His face lights up, and for some reason, that makes this guilt sit in my gut.
“Schatzie! You are sizzling. Total smokeshow. Glad you remembered to dress up.”
I don’t remember him asking me to dress up, but luckily I put on my red power dress earlier today in an attempt to impress my boss and pitch him a serious story instead of the usual fluff I’m assigned. I ended up filming the following news segment: “Ingrown Toenails: A Silent Killer? Local Doctor Weighs In.” So yeah, the outfit didn’t work. The memory of my boss publicly shooting down my pitch with such casual cruelty sets my nerves on edge.
I scoot the clunky wooden chair close to the table. “You know how the family is. Can’t get down to business. Have to gossip and nag for an hour before anything can get done.”
I don’t know why I’m ragging on them. Sure, Mom kept bugging me about going to some super-important Armenian event happening this month (eye roll), and Tantig Sona could not stop complaining about the heat, but there was a moment—when the late-afternoon June light hit the room and everything and everyone glowed yellow under it, the flora filling the space with the scent of buttercream cake—when I felt peaceful. We finished the arrangements, but there was still so much more setup, and I felt terrible for leaving them and feel terrible for being so late to this date.
“Oh, I know. Your crazy Armenian family. Loudest group of women in the continental US. That shower tomorrow—what are the little gifts you give out to people?”
I half smile because it’s not his fault; I talk smack on them constantly, so that’s what he internalizes. But also, how can he joke about loudness when this restaurant is his favorite one in the city? A cowbell rings over and over, and a flock of beer maidens parade out from the back, holding boots of beer for another techie group in the corner.
Trevor gazes at the display fondly, and I hope he’s not about to recount the hijinks of Oktoberfest 2009 again.
Before he gets a chance, I quickly answer, “The favors.”
“Favors. You’re giving out bedazzled earplugs to everyone, right?”
He chuckles to himself, and it jarringly reminds me of my work nemesis, Mark. Yuck, no. Trevor is nothing like Mark, who strong-arms his way into getting any piece with real merit, then smiles at the newsroom all self-satisfied. On camera, he’ll ask rude invasive questions to people who’ve experienced trauma, but the boss seems to eat it up. To distract myself from the thought of Trevor being anything like him, I scan the menu. “So, I’m thinking the jäger chicken—”
“I already ordered for us—the two-person sausage extravaganza. And a surprise.”
I hate surprises. My hope is that he’s referring to the apple strudel on the dessert menu, a huge departure from his usual lingonberry tart. Or maybe he bought one of the deer heads on the wall. They’re cool, if sad, and he’s been talking about making an offer on one. I give him a wan smile and start fanning myself with the menu like Tantig Sona.
“It feels special that we’re at Diekkengräber’s tonight, ja?” Trevor’s only a quarter German, and his last name, Milken, is Irish, but he was a German major, studied in Munich, and is still fluent. So naturally he pronounces the restaurant name with a perfect accent and not how I pronounce it, which is a variant of “dick grabber.”
“Ja,” I respond, trying to smile, assuming he means because he’s headed off on a twelve-hour flight to Germany tomorrow. He’s assisting one of the partners on this patent litigation case with an electric bike manufacturer. It’s a big deal for him. I need to pull myself together for his sake. I’m exhausted from a full day of shooting and editing—despite the uninspiring material—then dashing over to help with the shower, then navigating an hour of hair-pulling traffic to make it to the city. But he’s been talking up our dick grabber date for weeks, and I am wearing my red dress, and it’s Friday, and I’m only twenty-seven, so I should have the energy for this.
“I’m going to miss you so much, schatzie,” he says, his voice icky-sweet. Under the table, his hand squeezes my knee a little too hard. I don’t wince.
The pet name means “treasure” in German, which is cute, but he’s stopped saying my real name, Nareh, or even my nickname, Nar.
“Me, too,” I say, conscious of how I sound, trying to match his tone. “But you’ll be back soon.”
“Three weeks,” he says, shaken.
The rest of June and into early July. It should seem long, but I have this feeling that almost a month of being away from him is going to fly by.
“I keep pretending it’s shorter,” I say. I don’t know why I lie. I guess I want to make him happy.
A waitress sets a bottle of champagne and two glasses in front of us. The label says Cristal 2010, and I feel like the heat is getting to me, because that would be, like, a $500 bottle. Christ, it’s five years old; it might be pricier. Then I see the Cheshire grin on Trevor’s face.
“Are we celebrating your trip? That’s an”—I stumble over the words—“extravagant goodbye gesture.”
