Somehow this whole conversation went from migraine-inducing to kind of fun. It’s terrible to say, but I’m enjoying the attention. For almost a year all eyes have been focused on Diana and her Armenian bank-branch-manager fiancé, who looks like a handsome fox, all sharp features. Obviously, I’m happy for her, but it’s nice to have my family hang on my every word, because Ifeel like they care about my future, too. It just sucks I had to finally date Armenian people for them to care. Armenian men, I should say.
“It means he’s going to send me a private message on Instagram. Okay, I may have embellished, he didn’t say ‘slide.’ But he more or less did. He loved the flowers at your shower, by the way.”
“He saw my flowers?” I swear Diana blushes the tiniest bit rosy pink.
She pulls in next to my car, and I start to gather my purse and the bag of workout clothes I brought along.
My mom seems disturbed. “Don’t be doing private things like that. Make sure he knows you’re a woman worth something.”
“Mom, I know. It’s a saying. We were flirting a little, but he knows I’m a reporter. I’m not interested in a hookup.” I pause, and ugh, I can’t help myself. “I think.”
“Nareh!” my mom shouts, and Diana is giggling.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” I reassure her.
Almost to herself she says, “Raffi Garabedian’s eye is on my daughter. Who would have thought.” Then, back to me, “When he messages you, show me. No, show Diana, too. Tserket togh chuh pakhi.”
Such a vote of confidence. Mom insisting they’ll help me so he doesn’t slip from my fingers.
“Okay, I really have to go now. Di, thanks for the ride. Mom, I might be late tonight. I’m going to work out.”
I’m halfway out the door while mom is saying, “Work out. What is always this work out? Some people aren’t meant to work that hard. Focus on one thing.”
My mom thinks Americans have an obsession with working out, and that no one worked out in Lebanon, and they were allfine. She and my dad would always squabble about his constant tennis matches and golf games, but it was nice that he and I had that in common. Dad taught me to be decent at both in case, ya know, I needed to show off my skills to land the big promotion. Too bad real life hasn’t panned out like that, and my boss, Richard, is less interested in my killer backhand than my turning in a polished segment on time.
“I won’t try too hard during the workout, how about that?”
She nods. “That is good.”
I say goodbye to everyone and shut the door, taking care not to slam it. Diana hangs back a moment, waiting for me to get in and start my car. I hop in and turn on the engine so she knows I’m good to go.
Just then my phone pings with a text. It’s from Erebuni, and I freeze. I don’t feel foggy anymore. My body snaps into focus as I read.
Raining links on you. In case you change your mind about going to Armenian genocide events, here’s the link to the lecture
All right, I guess I sealed my fate yesterday and I’m going to have to go to that. Then again, Erebuni organizing it does make me a tad more interested in joining. There are dots as she’s typing.
A link to my favorite perfumery
I click, and it’s a fancy New York atelier with a dark website and typewriter font. Definitely won’t be able to buy any of those, but I’ll read about them and imagine the scents. I imagine hertapping her finger against the bottle opening and pressing her wet finger against each side of her neck. More dots as she types.
And a hope we can link up again soon?
I cup my phone in my hand like I would a fallen petal, inspecting the message. Everything outside is grayish white with fog, washed over in one color, but here in the car I’m glowing.
8
I like him just as much as I like the smoke in my eyes.
????? ?? ?????,????? ???? ????? ??? ?????:
—Armenian Proverb
On my mercifullytraffic-free drive to Redwood City (thank you, Sunday commute), somewhere near San Bruno, the fog lifts, revealing a crisp sunny day. People sometimes ask if my commute bothers me, and yeah, driving an hour in stop-and-go traffic isn’t pleasurable, but I love traversing the Bay Area’s microclimates, coming up for air from San Francisco’s drab summer weather to a perfect seventy-five-degree day in Redwood City. Fun fact: The city’s slogan is “Climate Best by Government Test,” which is such a funny, twee mini-brag. It’sscience!
I waltz into the morning meeting on the heels of my text exchange with Erebuni. The rest of our texts weren’t much. I thanked her for the links, assured her that I would go to the lecture, and let her know I’d be at the Armenian cooking class coming up in a couple of days. I read her reply when I parked my car, and she actually said, “Can’t wait.” I had to take a couple of meditative breaths not to get myself too excited. Not even the sight ofevilly grinning Mark, who I haven’t seen since I bodychecked him at Diekkengräber’s, can ruin my mood.
“Nice to see you’ve recovered from your fainting spell,” Mark says.
