“Well, at least if you guys keep dancing, I can let you know how the sound is from downstairs. You know, for when you’re paving and soundproofing. So you can know what the baseline is.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He’s making menervousnow. All that swinging and dipping and twirling around has gotten my head screwed on backward all of a sudden.
“Okay, bye,” I finally say, turning around before I can see his reaction and pushing open the big metal door to take me down the stairs.
Whatwasthat? What kind of pathetic, jittery stumbler did I just become? From adip? A hand on my hip?
It makes me worry that I’m imagining whatever I think is happening with J, becauseclearlyI’m so starved for affection or romance or something that I’m inventing wordplay dalliances and letting a manwho hates me get me flustered from a turn around a rooftop pretend dance floor.
I close my door and stand behind it, breathing out deeply. I notice my phone sitting on the counter.
I immediately go to it and open WhatsApp, instantly distracted by the thought of an answer from J. I haven’t looked at my phone since I asked him about words other languages have that we don’t.
He responded a little while ago—probably right when I heard the ding from my phone in my pocket after I’d run into Kwan.
J: Oooooh. Well, “schadenfreude” is such a good word in German that we’ve basically adopted it into English (Enjoying someone else’s misfortune). I also have always loved the word “tartle”—it’s esoteric and Scottish and describes when someone hesitates in an introduction because they’ve forgotten the other person’s name.
I lean over and pet George as I respond with one hand, happy to be in this much less confusing conversation.
Nora: Been there. How would you use it in a sentence?
J: Like ... “I experienced a moment of tartle when introducing a new client to my most forgettable colleague.” Or ... “I hoped my neighbour didn’t notice my tartle, since I’ve met him at least ten times.”
Nora: We wouldn’t want our neighbor to defenestrate us.
J: Ha! Exactly.
I go through the motions of getting ready for the night and climb into bed. George hops in with me, and it’s all extremely cozy. This isso much better as an evening plan than whatever else is still going on upstairs. It’s louder than I wish it was, though, and I find myself irritated at Eli all over again.
Nora: Although now that you mention it, defenestrating (is that the right usage?) some of my neighbors sounds appealing.
J: Uh oh, neighbour trouble?
Nora: Sort of. Just one pushy person who’s probably winning over the rest.
J: If you’ve got pushy neighbours, you’ve got to stand up to them. Never show weakness when it comes to where you live. You’ve got to make them think you’ll never give in, and that way you can actually find the compromise.
It’s amazing how J always sees me. I don’t think I’ve ever really admitted to him that I worry that I’m a pushover, but even without that overt description, he still gets where I’m coming from.
Nora: I have to admit that’s kind of what I need to hear.
J: You can do it. You give everyone else so much insight into their lives; you’re allowed to take a little back for yourself.
Nora: Sometimes I feel like I’m so much better at giving people advice than taking it myself.
Nora: So I appreciate having you cheer me on and hype me up.
J: We shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength. Never surrender!
Nora: Are you ... quoting Churchill at me?
J: Probably paraphrasing more than quoting, but sure.
I can’t help but chuckle. He’s such a linguistic dork, and it’s exceptionally endearing.
Nora: Well, thank you. Anyway, I know it’s super late over there so I don’t want to keep you up.
J: Totally fine. It’s always nice to hear from you.
