Psychic Junkie

by Sarah Lassez

  “I know; I’m aware.”

  “This worked for me once, when I found out a bunch of info on some guy I had a date with. It turned out one of my friends worked at the same company he did, and she told me all this shit, which of course he didn’t know I knew. So on our date I got a bit tipsy and decided to mess with him. I told him I was psychic and started rattling off all these things about him, down to the fact that he’d recently been on house arrest.”

  “You went on a date with a guy who’d been on house arrest?”

  “It was during my bad-boy stage. He used to be a model and was absolutely gorgeous. It was just the one date, though, which was just as well, ’cause he obviously wasn’t relationship material. He even had a tattoo across his lower stomach that said ‘Pervert.’”

  “That’s pretty spelled out.”

  “I know. Point is, though, he totally bought it. He flipped out. He thought I was psychic. Of course I scared him off and never saw him again, but I went overboard with the predictions. I was trying to freak him out.”

  “That’s an interesting first-date tactic.”

  “Yeah, then I got him drunk and painted his nails pink. In general guys don’t have nail polish remover at home, so he had to go in to work like that.” She laughed. “My bad-boy stage coincided with my angry stage.”

  Play psychic. It wasn’t a bad idea. How else was I going to confront him? Of course, having just asked about the mystery girl in the car, I couldn’t exactly claim to have also had a dream about a girl. He’d get suspicious. I’d have to give it some time.

  I made it till the next morning. As I watched him sleep, so peaceful, so innocent, a small puddle of drool on his pillow and his sparse hair locked and in the upright position, I debated over approaches. Would I tell him the dream freaked me out? Made me mad? Scared? Sad? The words “old basket of eggs” streaked through my mind. Damnit. I was pissed. I got out of bed and went to the kitchen, where I furiously paced till I heard Wilhelm staggering down the hall.

  “Hi, honey,” I said, my words laced with a top note of sweetness, a middle note of challenge, and a base note of pure fury. A smile plastered on my face, I opened the refrigerator door. “Do you want some eggs? I have some, but they might be old.”

  “Are they rotten?”

  My eyes narrowed. “No. They’re not that old.”

  “We don’t have to have eggs; we can have something else.”

  I slammed the door shut. “Fine.”

  “I can make au gratin potatoes?”

  “Yeah. You do that.”

  I watched him peel the potatoes, then start to slice them. What remained of his hair was still upright, though a few strands had ventured sideways. Poor guy hadn’t even had time to take a shower before I’d accosted him and forced him to cook. I had to calm down. Calm, I thought. Use the Good Dog Voice. “I’m sorry, honey. I guess I’m in a bad mood.”

  He nodded. “I know. They’re just eggs. Who cares if they’re old?”

  I smiled. “That’s sweet. Not necessarily true, but sweet.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just had this horrible nightmare last night. I think it’s still with me. You know how your dreams sometimes affect your moods? In it there was this girl in Germany who was in love with you.”

  He laughed.

  “Yeah, it was crazy.” I rolled my eyes as if to say, “I know, I’m just so wacky” and then said, “So there was this girl who lived there, and I guess she really liked you because she was upset we were together. And then I found out that you guys talked all the time. God, what else? There was something else.” I paused, staring up at the ceiling as if trying to jog my memory. “Oh, right. You e-mailed each other.”

  Now he looked up at me, his smile gone. “Huh.” Then, without saying anything more, he went back to work on his potatoes, sliding the slices to one end of the chopping board.

  “And then,” I continued, “I found out you two were involved.”

  “Involved? Like romantically?”

  “Yeah. Strange, huh? It was a romantic involvement. Ha.” I said this in an absurdly flippant tone, as if remarking how silly an F5 twister was when it wiped out an entire town. “And then it got really bizarre, because I found out you saw her recently.”

  Now he put the knife down. His eyes were wide. “Okay, Sarah, this is strange. I do have a friend back in Germany I talk to. We’re just friends, though, nothing more, but we do e-mail to each other, and I saw her recently.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. My God! I cannot believe you dreamt that!”

  “Me either!”

  Shaking his head, he resumed his slicing. “Just last week she was here, too, visiting California with her boyfriend. That is so strange.”

  Her boyfriend. She has a boyfriend. Suddenly the image I’d conjured, the two of them cozy and speaking in their mother tongue over white wine and oysters, morphed into the two of them plus her boyfriend, all with café lattes in a bright Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. Maybe they’d had blueberry muffins, but they certainly hadn’t had oysters.

  I don’t think I’d ever felt relief like that. It was more comforting than shade on a hundred-degree day, more exciting than discovering an employee at a skin-care counter who ached to give out free samples, more welcome than a spotless restroom on a road trip. In short, I’d worried for nothing, and relief flooded over me with such force I felt the need to lie down in the middle of the kitchen and start giggling. “She has a boyfriend?”

  He nodded. “They’ve been together for a year? Maybe less. He sounds like a great guy, but a bit dull.”

  Sounds like. Sounds like. Sounds like? “So wait, you didn’t meet him?”

  “No. Not this time. They were on different flights; he got in later than she did. I met her at the airport and took her out for the afternoon.”

  Okay, breathe, Sarah. I needed to fixate on something. Stare at something, take it in, think of nothing else, be calm. Breathe. My eyes locked on his widow’s peak. I watched it. The skin beside it was shining. The hair was haphazard. I swear it was becoming more defined by the second. I blinked. “That was nice of you. What day was this?”

  “Last Wednesday? Thursday? No, Wednesday.” As if realizing, for the first time, that this could get him in trouble, he quickly added, “I worked that evening, so it was a short visit. Very short.”

  That was it. That was all I got out of him. As we ate our au gratin potatoes, I had to concentrate on chewing in order not to scream, “Why didn’t we all go on a double date? That’s what FRIENDS do! And why have you still not mentioned that she was one of the girls you kissed? That her name was NADJA? And why, oh, pray tell, did you not tell me?”

  I made it my mission to hunt down every single e-mail that Nadja the Aryan Hussy and Wilhelm the Suspicious had ever shared. Right away I noticed he replied to only a fraction of the e-mails she sent him, a fact that left her extremely nonplussed but that lent me a lovely sense of superiority. Ha! I thought. You’re in love with him, but he’s mine! MINE! But then, a few e-mails later, any and all superiority I felt was replaced by seething anger: Along with complaining about his sporadic communication, Nadja the Vicious had become skilled at subtly weaving in bitchy comments about his “L.A. treasure.” Well, this L.A. treasure was not going to sit idly by and endure digs behind her back. No, this L.A. treasure was going to ask how her boyfriend felt about the whole situation, by calling Erlin!

  “He doesn’t care about her. You need to believe me on this. She may be in love with him, but he’s in love with you.”

  I smiled. Take that, you Aryan spawn of Satan.

  “To him,” Erlin continued, “she’s nothing more than a fly buzzing in the corner of his vision. It’s you whom he sees.”

  A fly? A six-foot-tall blond, gorgeous fly? I think not. Nonetheless, I tried to embrace the sentiment by repeating in my mind Nadja is a fly, Nadja is a fly. The crucial thing to remember was that he didn’t care about her. Most likely, I figure
d, he had no idea how she felt about him. Okay, that last one was hard to sell, even to me. Though men are notoriously clueless about all things to do with women, Nadja was so glaringly obvious with her feelings and intentions that she might as well have been sending him e-mails with a subject line that read “Hi, Wilhelm! I love you and am trying to break up your relationship!”

  But it was clear from his sporadic responses as well as from what Erlin had said that Wilhelm did not share Nadja’s amorous intentions. Ultimately, when I really thought about it, what had he done wrong? If anything he’d been trying to spare me needless worry. He couldn’t help it if she was in love with him. He had no control over her feelings. And honestly, I myself was still friends with guys I’d kissed. Was that a crime? No. Of course, I knew myself and knew I could be trusted around those guys, but then again, what evidence did I have that proved Wilhelm wasn’t trustworthy? All I had was proof that he barely kept up a friendship with a girl he’d once kissed, and to prevent any unnecessary worry, he’d omitted it. That was it. There was nothing to worry about.

  Unfortunately, his behavior wasn’t helping me forget about the Aryan Fly. Perhaps sensing something was amiss, he became distant, his romantic talk of our future muffled once more into silence. What the hell? Only a month before, he’d been spouting plans for our life together, had taken me to Hawaii and babbled endlessly about how much I meant to him. Now it was as if I were simply a lump on the couch, a frilly annoyance that didn’t match his Lucite decor. Nadja. I knew it had to do with her. With renewed vigor I threw myself into monitoring his e-mails and prowling the depths of his apartment, determined to find any and all evidence of Nadja-tivity.

  One morning, after he’d left for work, I logged on as usual to check his e-mails. There in the subject line was a confirmation from American Airlines. Hmmm. Are we taking a trip? Maybe the distance I’d sensed was in fact secret vacation planning? Sure, we’d just gotten back from vacation, but American Airlines is, well, an airline, so it’s usually safe to say plane tickets are involved. Click. There was his name, and the details for a flight to Frankfurt in just a couple of weeks.

  Germany—to meet his parents! My heart began to pound. I scrolled down. And down. And down. Then I could scroll no more. That was it. My name was nowhere to be found. I went back to his in-box, searching for another, perhaps separate, confirmation, but the only other e-mail that day was one from Dustin.

  I tried to breathe. What had happened to his promises that the next time he went home he’d take me? Didn’t he still want me to meet his parents? Was this…was this to visit The Fly?

  Determined to learn more about this trip, I began reading other e-mails. All other e-mails. I got to the one from Dustin, which was, of course, in German, and was actually a reply to an earlier e-mail I’d somehow missed. Not a problem. By now I was well practiced in this little routine, so within seconds I had it translated and ready for perusal. I immediately scrolled to the bottom and began reading the original e-mail, from Wilhelm to Dustin. Okay. Blah blah blah, chitchat, yadda yadda, all normal guy stuff made slightly cryptic by what must have fallen through the gaps in the bridge from German to English…and then I saw my name. I skipped to that part. “You by now must be in knowledge of the reunification of Sarah and I. Weakness was my battle, and now we are together paired.” Weakness was my battle? Getting back together made him weak? I kept reading, and that’s when I saw, in torturously clear, concise English, the last line of his e-mail: “Did I make a mistake?”

  Oh. My. God. Quickly I scrolled up and read Dustin’s response, some lame quip about how it was never a mistake to kiss Julia Roberts. That was it. Though I hate being compared to Julia Roberts, I must admit I said a silent blessing for Dustin’s existence, since I suppose he had indeed taken my…or Julia’s…side. Whatever.

  It was undeniable. I was screwed. Why, why, why, why don’t I learn my lessons? After finding The Insect’s e-mails, I should’ve known that snooping was bad and could only lead to unanswerable questions. So there I was, yet again filled with questions I could never utter aloud but would instead be forced to drill into Wilhelm’s head with my deadly and penetrating stares. Never could I scream, “You begged me to take you back, so where the hell do you get off thinking it was a mistake only a month later? And why are you just now telling your friend we’re together? Were you ashamed? And why are you going to Germany? WHO IS IN GERMANY? And don’t say your parents!”

  I had to address this. That night Wilhelm came over. It was late, he’d just gotten off work, and I could tell he was tired. He sat down to take off his shoes and I bided my time, waiting for the right moment, waiting, waiting, waiting…waiting till he got one shoe off.

  “So. I guess your friend Dustin isn’t very good with the whole e-mail process.”

  “What?”

  “Dustin. E-mails. The two don’t go together. Why, you ask? I’ll tell you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. So he went to reply to an e-mail you sent him, but when he did he accidentally sent it to everyone in his entire address book.” I don’t know where I came up with that; it just hit me in the moment and flew out of my mouth.

  “What?”

  Stay strong. Strong and confident. “Uh-huh. So Gina goes to check her e-mails and there’s one from Dustin, apparently intended for you. She saw my name, and not knowing what it was, forwarded it to me. So tell me, Wilhelm, did you decide whether or not it was a mistake to get back together with me? Or is kissing Julia Roberts a good enough reason?”

  I must admit, I felt a touch bad. The poor boy was frozen with his hand on the heel of his shoe and his eyes filled with immobilizing bewilderment. Do not feel bad. I charged forth. “Well?”

  A few things helped sell my grossly convoluted story. One, he was tired. Two, he was confused. Three, he was unsuspecting. Never would it have occurred to him that I was really as insane as I was. Though I gathered by what came next that he was beginning to skim the surface. “Wasn’t that e-mail,” he said, his voice deepening, “in German?”

  I couldn’t go on the defensive. I had to continue, strong and on the attack. “It was about me, Wilhelm; I saw my name. I had every right to translate it.”

  “I see. You translated it. And you didn’t find that to be an invasion of privacy?”

  I must say, I didn’t care for his tone. “No. The e-mail was sent to me, and was about me. Don’t try to turn this around to mask what you did. The only subject we need to address is what the hell you meant by questioning getting back together with me. That really hurt me, you know.”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t serious. It’s how we talk. Look. The last time I was with Dustin, you and I were apart. The whole time I spent crying in my beer about you. So this, what you read, was just macho speak. It wasn’t serious.”

  I stared him down. In support of his claim, I had seen him and Dustin interact, and in general it had involved German-accented impersonations of plastered frat boys who blabbed for hours about absolutely nothing of importance. It appeared to almost be a rule, a mandate of sorts, not to broach real subjects, to steer clear of anything of significance, and to display not one emotion other than drunken oblivious joviality. “So, you weren’t serious?”

  He laughed. “No. I’m happy to be back with you. I’m not questioning. But,” he said as he started down the hall to my room, “there is one thing you won’t be happy about.”

  I followed him, my nerves prickly with panic.

  “I have to go back to Germany to renew my visa. I know I said I’d take you when I next went, but it’s not the right time. It’s in two weeks. I need to go alone now. It won’t be a long trip.”

  I sat on the bed, heartsick. How could I argue? I wanted him to want to take me, and clearly he didn’t. Sure I could force my way on the plane, but I’ve never been fond of tagging along. I need to be the center of attention, not an afterthought bringing up the rear, not the unexpected guest who eats all the Brie and then turns a lovely dinner into a cra
mped, elbow-jabbing, knee-bumping culinary catastrophe. And besides, getting upset about this could incite him to revisit the story of the e-mail and its complicated path to my in-box. No, the best course of action right then was to do nothing.

  “Well, if that’s how you feel, then I understand.”

  Wilhelm’s eyes went wide. “Really? You’re okay with this?”

  Oooh, too suspicious. “Well, no, of course not. I’m actually really hurt because it was a promise. But if it’s not the right time, it’s not the right time. I can’t argue with that; I basically have no choice but to understand.” I smiled, and patted the bed. “But I bet there’s a way you can make it up to me.”

  He nodded as he undid his belt buckle, his trousers barely skimming the floor before he scooped them up and hung them neatly on a hanger. “I already thought of that. You know those chocolates, the nougat ones you somehow found in my closet and ate all of?”

  I smiled seductively. “Who could forget something so orgasmic?” And honestly, I hadn’t been able to forget those chocolates. For the past week I’d been dreaming of them, and just the other day I’d craved one (fine, one box) and as a last resort had ended up buying a Hershey’s bar and then verbally abusing it for not living up to its chocolate potential. It was disturbing. Those German chocolates he’d so cruelly—and futilely, might I add—hidden from me had ruined me for life.

  He folded back the covers and slipped into bed. “I’ll bring some back for you. Maybe even a couple boxes.” He sank deep into the bed under the layers of blankets. “Mmmm. You got new fabric softener. This is heaven.”

  From the corner of the bed I watched him. He closed his eyes, his smile lessening only slightly as he turned on his side and pulled the covers around his face. Then, just like that, he was asleep, drifting off into downy soft dreams of mountain springs. The bastard.

  One thing you don’t do is send your boyfriend off to visit an Aryan whore with a bad taste for relationships in his mouth. Essentially, I realized, that was the situation I’d created. So before he left, I tried to be cool, sexy, fun, and undemanding. I figured while the sneaky wench was preparing an arsenal of evil comments about Wilhelm’s “L.A. treasure,” this L.A. treasure would engage in a preemptive strike by increasing her own worth. For everything she might say, I bestowed upon my dupe of a boyfriend an action that would help form my defense. “No,” I envisioned him countering, “she’s not a nag! Just last week I didn’t call for an entire day and she didn’t care! And she actually said she’d like to make enough money so she could support me and I wouldn’t have to work! She’s amazing!”