Haha! Me neither, she replies, and I’m grinning all over again.
We continue this back-and-forth, and before long, the documentary is over and I kind of wish it wasn’t.
Isn’t that such a bittersweet ending? she asks.
Yeah, but it’s a good ending, I say.
We both go quiet then, and I take a breath before asking, Do you want to trade phone numbers and take this off the app?
She doesn’t reply right away, and I fidget as I wait. I’m nervous, I realize. I like this weird octopus-loving girl.
Yes, please. This interface is so confusing. I accidentally sent octopus comments to other people while we were watching, she says.
The crack of my laughter is loud in my apartment, even as something uncomfortable pushes at my chest at the idea that she’s talking to other guys. Their responses were probably awesome.
They were. One guy said he didn’t sign up for this. The other said, “Baby, I only have two hands, but I’ll use my feet if you want.” I laughed so hard that someone’s dog started barking outside.
A second later, she sends me her number, and I feel like I won the lottery. I don’t think she gave her number to that other dude, even though he’s willing to get fancy with his feet.
Off app, I text her the question, Do you want to text or call?
There’s a pause before she replies, Do you have a preference?
I want to hear your voice, I answer.
Okay, she says.
But when I call her, the phone only rings a few times before the call disconnects.
Sorry, I’m nervous, she texts.
I’m cool texting. No worries, Anna. In the back of my head, I wonder if she’s really a middle-aged man catfishing me from his mom’s basement in his underwear. My gut tells me she’s real, though.
Thank you. I’ve never done this before, she says.
Hey, it’s been a long time since I’ve dated and stuff, so I feel a little awkward too, I admit.
Were you in a serious relationship too? she asks.
So that’s it. She’s coming out of a serious relationship and looking for rebound sex. I completely get it.
Nah, I had some health issues, needed surgery. Don’t worry, I’m better now, I tell her, hoping she thinks “health issues” and “surgery” mean a torn ACL or something like that.
I’m glad you’re better. She adds another smiley face, and it’s stupid of me, but it makes me happy.
Thanks, I say.
So what do we do now? she asks.
Whatever you want, but usually trading phone numbers means we’re planning to meet up soon.
Do you want to meet tonight? she asks.
My eyes widen at her message. It’s only a little past nine o’clock, but it feels too late and too soon at the same time. Late because we only have one night, and tonight is half over. Soon because I only just met her, and it’s almost good-bye for good. How about tomorrow night?
Sure, that works for me, she says.
I send her a link to a local bar. This place at 7?
Sounds good!
Great, I reply, and after a few seconds, I send her a smiley face.
We fall silent then. I want to keep talking to her, watch another movie, even if it’s this weird documentary again, but I don’t want to be annoying. And I don’t want to act like this is more than it is. That’s the beauty of it—that it’s nothing.
It takes restraint, but I don’t message her again all night.
SIX
Anna
THE FIRST THING I DO WHEN I WAKE UP SATURDAY MORNING IS check my phone for messages from him.
There aren’t any. Of course there aren’t. I’m not surprised. Really, I’m relieved. But I’m a little disappointed, too. Just the tiniest bit.
Still lying in bed, I read over our conversation from last night. That same giddy excitement fills my chest, and I smile as I bite my lip.
I did it. I met someone online, we talked, and then we set up a date. If I’m being honest with myself, it was kind of nice. He likes octopi! Better than that, I was able to be myself. I didn’t pretend. For once, I feel like I’m in control of my life. It’s a heady experience.
It took me forever to fall asleep last night because my mind wouldn’t stop. I should be dragging today, but I’m buzzing with nervous energy instead. The hours fly by.
Halfway through my practice time, when I find myself starting over again and again just like usual, I impulsively set the Richter piece aside and decide to try something else, like Jennifer suggested. Clearing my mind and taking a series of deep breaths, I set my bow to the strings and let the opening notes of Vaughan Williams’ “The Lark Ascending” sing.
This is my dad’s favorite song. He requests I play it on his birthday and whenever we have family events or his friends are over, so the notes are deeply ingrained in my muscle memory. I’m not sure which pleases him more—the music itself or showing me off to people. It doesn’t really matter to me. I just like making him happy.
The music slowly pours from my violin, fluttering erratically upward on changing currents of air. It transports me, so sweetly passionate that for a moment I get caught up in it. I forget time, I forget me. There’s only this beautiful feeling of soaring over vast fields of open green. And I realize I’m playing, truly playing.
This is the reason I breathe.
I hear it then. My timing is just a hair off. It’s been so long since I’ve played this song that my bow work is a bit sloppy. I can do better.
So I start over. It’s such a signature piece that if it isn’t just so, critics can be vicious. I won’t give them an opening. I can outmaneuver them. I can be more vicious to myself than they are, and in so doing, I will win.
Art is war.
It’s still not quite right, so I start over just one more time. I try harder to get the timing exact. And I hit it. The notes trill and climb like small wings beating on updrafts of wind. Only to snag. Not enough emphasis in that part.
I start over.
And I start over.
And I start over.
Until the alarm on my phone pulls me out, and I turn it off and stare blankly about the room. I’m back where I started. At the beginning. My throat aches, but I swallow the tightness away.
There was that brief moment when the music sang to me and I forgot to listen to the voices in my head. That’s something.
I’m so close to beating this. I can feel it. The solution is right there. I can see it. If I can just wrap my fingers around it, I will unlock my mind, and everything will go back to how it used to be.
Determined, I put my violin away and prepare to battle in a different manner. I’m going to have a date tonight. I’m going to flirt. I’m going to have fun. I’m not going to torture myself by watching his reactions and trying to be what he wants. Inevitably, because I’m me, I will embarrass myself. And I’m going to try my hardest not to care about any of it. I have no reason to care—not beyond basic human decency, at any rate. This man is completely wrong for me. I have no intention of ever seeing him again. I don’t need his respect. I don’t need his approval. I don’t need his love.
And that makes him perfect. With him, I will experiment with being brave.
I shower and shave my legs, brush my teeth, do all the hygiene things, and put on makeup and fix my hair, like I’m preparing for an important concert. I suppose tonight will be a concert of sorts, one where my performance is based entirely on improvisation. After putting on the red dress and stepping into my nicest high heels, I take a picture of myself in the mirror and send it to Rose and Suzie, along with the message Going on a date. Wish me luck.