I feel like maybe I’m not so alone, after all.
13
WYATT
I wake up Saturday morning to a text from Ely.
It takes me a second to recover from the shock. Obviously, she’s texted me before. She texted me literally last night. And yet I still manage to be surprised that she reached out again—and in the middle of the night, according to the time stamp on the text.
Ely: well, I survived. Nobody relapsed, nobody died
I sit there with my thumbs hovering over my phone keyboard. Even though it’s too late now, especially considering I talked her off a ledge last night and I probably have some moral obligation to continue the conversation at this point, some brutally scrupulous part of me thinks I still shouldn’t respond. Last night was one thing. Last night, that was urgent—that was excusable. She’d needed me.
Am I even allowed to text back right now?
Am I allowed not to?
Ely: Still feeling like a piece of shit tbh. Probably shouldn’t have gone to a party in the first place
Me: Do you want to talk about it? I’m free this afternoon.
As soon as I hit Send, I wish I could take the message back. My brain is screaming at me that the line is all the way the fuck back there and I just careened across it. Because I have zero self-control. Because I can’t stick to a vow I make to myself for longer than thirty seconds. How hard would it have been to type back something sympathetic and encouraging and end the conversation there?
But on the other hand…
On the other hand, she’s only here for a summer. And I can’t watch another addict suffer and say nothing.
I stare at the three little dots that pop up as Ely’s typing, then disappear, then reappear again. It feels like it takes ten interminable minutes, although it’s probably more like twenty seconds, before she replies.
Ely: Sure. On campus?
Me: Let’s meet at the Met. There’s an exhibit there that I think might inspire you.
Of course, making plans for this afternoon means I now have half a day to sit around waiting for the hours to pass. And it’s not like I don’t have work to do. The anticipation simply consumes any ability I would have had to actually do said work. All I can think about is—alternately—how much I’m looking forward to seeing her again and how stupid it was to suggest another one-on-one off-campus hangout in the first place.
I end up leaving my apartment fifteen minutes earlier than I actually need to according to Google Maps. I text Ely once I’m at the museum and buy a hot dog from one of the carts parked on the sidewalk out front. Oral fixation, I can hear Ava joke in my head. What can I say? I eat when I’m anxious.
So obviously Ely shows up while I’m still cramming hot dog into my face. I scramble to wipe mustard off my fingers and push up to my feet. She’s wearing a dress with thin straps, the kind that shows off the sharp angle of her shoulders and the slope of her collarbones. I remember grazing kisses along those collarbones, the salty taste of her skin against my tongue.
Focus.
“Glad you could make it,” I say.
She smiles, squinting slightly against the sunlight. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m desperate enough for inspiration I’d take it from the back of a cereal box at this point.”
God, I wish I was that good at banter. I’d kill for something witty and charming to say in response.
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to bring up the party thing or if she will. But probably better to keep my mouth shut and let her drive the conversation.
“I can’t help on the cereal box front, but I think you’ll like this exhibit. I saw it last week.” With Ava, who as it turned out was best friends with the artist, which meant we got a personal tour complete with the artist’s own commentary on each piece.
The exhibit itself highlights the work of an Afghan artist based in Atlanta. It features elegant calligraphy on canvases that all but consume the walls they’re placed on. The lettering stands out against splattered paint, or smeared charcoal, or pitch-black ink. In one case the calligraphy is stitched, not painted, a mosaic masterpiece of gold filament.
We draw closer, as close as the exhibition will allow. And when you’re this near, close enough to see the brushstrokes, you can see that it isn’t merely calligraphy that’s painted on. The lettering is constructed of tiny scenes: a miniature crowd of people, faceless; a population of millions making up the fabric of an image that only seems uniform from far away.
I want to ask Ely what she thinks, but I bite back the words. I know better than to poison this with conversation. Those first few minutes absorbing a work of art are vital, and they’re ones you can’t get back. Instead I study her: the way her dark eyes roam the paintings, the slight part of her lips as she peers closer. Her hair falls forward and obscures her profile, a veil of molasses waves.
“What do you think?” I ask, after we’ve circled the perimeter of the room and she’s seen every piece. We’ve settled on one of the benches in front of Ely’s favorite, both of us gazing at a magnificent work of art.
“It’s incredible,” she says, and I can’t suppress the flash of vindication that sparks in my chest at that—the same feeling you get when you recommend a book to someone and they end up liking it. “I know what I read into it, in terms of meaning, but you can also tell that it’s not for me. And I’ll never really understand the nuances of everything the artist is saying, because I’m not Muslim. It’s just a small window into a conversation.”
There’s something faraway about the look on her face as she says it, and I know where her mind is going. She’s already thinking about the things she might want to say with her own work: to everyone but also to Jewish people in particular. The way art can say one thing to the world and something else to a community, if you know the right language.
I have the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and touch her—as if physical contact could be the key to inspiration. It’s not, of course; it’s just the closeness of our bodies on this bench getting the better of me. But I still shift my position and brace one hand against the bench between us so that my fifth finger grazes her thigh.
I can tell it affects her as much as it does me. She shivers slightly, her lips parting as she lets out a soft exhale.
“Are you doing okay?” I say at last, once it becomes clear she isn’t going to bring up last night on her own. “When you texted me…We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I figured I’d ask.”
She sighs and stares down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. “It was stupid. I never should have gone.”