“Oh.” I hadn’t put it together. That Safie would think someone could be interested in me—it wouldn’t occur to me. “You’re probably the one who deserves an apology. I’m not much fun at these things.”
My warning disregarded, Stephen stood with me next to that real or unreal fern for the better part of an hour. We talked about the year, my first, his second, and plans for the summer. As hespoke, Stephen rotated his plastic cup between the fingers of one hand, as if setting up a magic trick. There was something calming in the repeated motion and maybe that’s why I let myself talk with him for so long; the spell was working.
I didn’t usually date other academics (I try not to shit where I eat), but when Stephen emailed the next day and suggested we get dinner, signing off with a smiley face, I accepted the invitation. We met again the following weekend, and then again the next. After the first time we had sex—it was gentle and quiet and sweet, like him—Stephen asked about past boyfriends. At thirty-four years old, I was embarrassed to admit that nothing had ever lasted long enough for someone to call me that. To think of me as theirs. I was worried I didn’t know how to be in a relationship, but Stephen was patient, and, truthfully, did a lot of the work—a weekend afternoon antiquing in the small towns between here and Akron, getting tickets for a concert in Cleveland. I did my part by trying to stay out of the way. Sometimes I wondered if it was love, and I remembered someone in grad school saying that if you had to ask, you knew the answer. But I wasn’t so sure I would be able recognize love. Whatever we had, I knew it was a good thing, and I could try to let it be good.
We drove across town to a strip mall of local chains and big box stores. We got to the theater ridiculously early, even for Stephen. We bought tickets at the box office and then Stephen pointed at the cell phone store next door.
“We have enough time. Wanna look around?”
“Maybe after,” I said, knowing it would probably be closed by then. “We should head in.”
He and Safie had both been nagging me to replace my phone for months. The battery died constantly, and the back was heldtogether with tape. I don’t know why I was so resistant to a new phone. It felt unnecessary—I hardly used it.
“Mark, come on. Just to look.”
“Okay, sure. Just to look.”
The guy in the shop had a round shiny face with dark eyes like little pins. I passed him my phone and asked if he could just replace the battery. “I mean … I guess,” he said, turning it over in this hand. “But fixing it would probably cost more than this thing is worth. I can’t believe you still have a flip phone. My niece has one of these.”
He led us across the store and gestured at a display case. “We finally got the Five.” I had no idea what he meant. He had one himself and pulled it out. It was one of those new kinds, compact little computers that did a million different things. He loved it—that’s what he kept saying, “I love this phone, I love it.” And now he couldn’t live without it. He spoke in a rush, never pausing for a breath, heavy eyebrows bouncing over his pinprick eyes. “We still have the Four. It’s cheaper, obviously. But honestly, the Five—this thing is incredible.” He rattled off numbers: megabytes, data, pixels. Beside me, Stephen made little sounds of approval—“Yes, yes”—and nodded along. The guy showed us some game about unhappy birds and his high score. “And check this out,” he said. “Facebook finally came out with a decent app.” That’s what he called the applications, “apps.” He pressed it open, moving his thumb around. A photo filled the screen: a young kid holding a popsicle, cherry-red smear on her fat cheeks. “This is Louisa!” And when I didn’t react, he said, “My niece!” And indeed, her other hand clutched a phone exactly like mine. I didn’t feel like I needed all the bells and whistles, but the guy was so insistent, with Stephen egging him on, I finally agreed. He wanted to set it up right then, move my number over. It seemed like a whole process.
“I don’t want to be late for the movie,” I said, though we still had plenty of time. “Can’t you just give me a new one?”
“You want a new phone number?” Stephen asked.
I shrugged. “Who do I have to tell? You, Safie, my parents.”
“I suppose,” Stephen said. He had a look on his face, I couldn’t tell what it meant, but he didn’t argue, and so the guy rang me up and handed over the box, grinning.
“You’re gonna love it,” he said.
The theater was mostly empty, just an elderly couple down in front, some teenagers to the side, giggling and pawing at each other. As low-budget ads for used car lots flashed by, we caught up on our week. Stephen had been working on a grant application, a big one. If it came through, he’d be set for the next few years, and probably for tenure. I asked how it was going.
“It’s almost there,” he said. “I think.”
“Did you get any feedback from Amit?” Stephen had sent a draft to his chair. He nodded. “And what did Amit say?” I asked, though I had a good idea at the answer.
“He had a few small tweaks.”
“And?”
“And he said otherwise it was good to go.”
“Those were his words?”
Stephen sighed, but smiled. “He said it was a stellar application.”
I laughed. “So send it in.”
“I will, I will. I just want to go through it one more time.” He tossed a handful of popcorn from the jumbo-sized container into his mouth—Stephen was serious about his movie snacks. “How were your classes today?”
“I don’t know—fine.” I didn’t want to think about my classes.
“Fine works. How about the new one? Are the students liking the sex and death?”
“I mean, who doesn’t like sex and death?”
“It’s what keeps us going, isn’t it? Running toward one, and running from the other.”
