USE COMMON SENSE
“That seems optimistic,” I said.
“I got tired of updating it.”
“Someone will interpret this as permission.”
“Use your customer-service voice.”
“My customer-service voice is excellent.”
“It is your normal voice with less blinking.”
I began unpacking the regulators.
I had watched Annie’s interview twice.
The first time, alone at home after she texted to tell me it had happened.
The second, behind Rosa’s counter while Rosa pretended she needed to verify the captions.
Annie had said she was a lesbian. She had admitted that the stories involving men had been useful to her career and that she had allowed them to continue. She had talked about fear without presenting it as something that absolved her.
Then Daniel Price had asked about me.
Annie had refused to answer.
Not no to whatever existed between us.
No to the idea that speaking honestly about herself gave her permission to speak for me.
I had told her I saw the interview and that she looked happy onstage. Both things were true.
Neither explained what it had done to me.
Hank placed a clipboard beside the register.
“You watched the whole thing?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
“I already told you. She looked happy.”
“That was the concert.”
“I also saw the interview.”
He waited.
Hank had either learned this technique from my mother or developed it independently through years of handling nervous divers.
“She chose to do it without using me,” I said.
“That mattered.”
“Yes.”
