My phone dings again, and I expect to see photos of the fish tank, but instead it’s the most wonderful opposite of that.
J: By the way, I attempted to google stats on exit-row help, because I can’t help myself.
J: Unfortunately there’s nothing concrete, but I did find an article from theJournal of Air Law and Commerce(which, yes, is a real thing that I bet only extremely cool people read), and it’s called “Taking Exit Row Seating Seriously,” and it’s all about why we shouldn’t let exit rows become a perk. And I think it’s right up your alley hahaha.
J: However I did stumble across my new favorite statistic, which is that almost half of all men believe they could land a plane in an emergency (vs. 20% of women), and that’s the most wild, unearned bravado I’ve ever heard. So the journey was worth it.
I smile, grateful that at leastthisattempt to make a path is turning out even more delightful than I could have expected.
Chapter 11
As the days roll along into mid-June, even with this strange Eli roof mess looming, it’s hard not to feel good. The sun is shining, the strawberries are actually starting to hit their peak in the market, and after that initial trickle, I’m finding myself texting with J pretty much every day.
There’s something sort of delightful to texting about everything and nothing. He asks about my work, I ask about his edits, but mostly we’re just texting about topics that have nothing to do with anything personal: The chocolate chip tahini cookie recipe I love from this magazine where I accidentally doubled the sugar the other day. The family-friendly movie he rewatched for the first time in thirty years and realized he was now older than the parents in it. The small elderly man on my subway car who started belting out Rod Stewart’s “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy” very loudly at seven in the morning before most people had had their coffee.
Somehow, in the span of a week, texting with J has become an integral part of my day. Usually the only person I text with is Dane, and she’s not exactly the most effusive—it’s basically a lot of updates about the pool league and photos of plants and flowers. Or I get the occasional stream of consciousness from my mother.
But I’ve never shared my fleeting observations so casually. Or had someone share theirs with me.
??So a couple days ago I walked past this little shop that had a kit for making a ship in a bottle,??he texted me earlier today.
J: And I don’t know what impulse made me buy it, but I did. And every minute I’m doing it now, I’m thinking “this is extremely tedious” and yet somehow I can’t stop thinking about it? I get home, and I’m like, “I need to glue this tiny thing onto another tiny thing.” Is this how people realise they’ve gone insane? Am I preemptively turning into a retired person without being retired? Can you please explain, in your professional opinion, the psychological implications of obsessing over a tiny ship?
I write back in between patients.??I’m gonna go with thalassophobia—fear of open water.??
??Ah, perfect,??he responds immediately.??I knew I’d come to the right shrink. Is that the most bizarre phobia you can think of???
??No therapist would categorize any phobia as bizarre,??I point out, my need to avoid mental health stigmas stronger than my need to joke.??But I think my favorite is triskaidekaphobia.??
J: Fear of poems with three lines?
I shoot back a question mark, and he responds,??tristichs.??
??That’s the dorkiest word-nerd thing you’ve said yet,??I type back while laughing.??But no. Triskaidekaphobia is fear of the number 13.??
J: I think open water has more potential to harm than the number 13.
Nora: I don’t think phobias are meant to necessarily be rooted in rationality.
J: Now you’re just getting technical.
Every time we text, I can’t help but grin. Can you have banter over text? It sure feels like it. I put my phone away hastily as my next clients come in. But the conversation stays on my mind.
??You must have a favorite word,??I ask a few hours later, letting my next question practically type itself between clients.
??Defenestration,??he writes back immediately. I send another question mark.
J: It’s a word that means to throw someone out a window. I just think it’s so bizarrely specific. Like, in the English language we don’t have a word, for example, for your sibling’s in-laws, but we have a word about specifically throwing someone out a window?
Nora: That is an amazingly specific word.
Nora: What are some words other languages have that we don’t?
I don’t get to see if he answers, though, because the rest of my day is completely back to back. And for some reason, every single client seems to be having a particularly rough week. When I finally get out of work later, I stand in the waning sunshine for a few minutes. I’d booked an emergency session with a client who needed it over lunch, and there’s something sterile about being in an office for hours on end without any break.
But I let the noise and humidity envelop and calm me as I walk home. I know for a lot of people that might seem counterintuitive, but the energy of New York actually centers me. It’s always there, humming in the background, the symphony of constant motion, the steady backdrop to my life. I might be a fairly quiet person to others, but I feed off the bustle around me.
I get home and grab George to take him for a walk around the block. I’m excited for the prospect of blobbing out on my couch for the evening, so maybe I move a little faster than usual. After I enter the building’s elevator, a hand stops the door from closing, and Kwan steps in.
