So This Is the End

by Alexandra Franzen

  I notice that Tasha stopped taking notes somewhere between “blogger” and “pancake.” She flips to a fresh page in her notebook and tries a different tactic.

  “Can you remember the last time someone gave you a compliment that meant a lot to you? What did they say?” she asks.

  No one’s ever asked me that before. I roll back through a few recent memories. Nothing seems to leap out. But then … hmm, yeah. Maybe that.

  “So this was a long time ago, back when I was working in the coffee shop,” I begin. Her pen starts moving again.

  “I used to draw little cartoons on the customers’ coffee cups. Nothing that amazing or anything. Just little doodles. People’s faces. Their kids. The dogs they would bring by. Or little details that I had learned about their lives. Sometimes I would write a little message, like inspiring quotes or whatever. I just did it because it was fun and because I knew it made people happy. Something to pass the time during slow shifts. . . .”

  “One day, a regular came by. I handed over her usual coffee—with a cute doodle of her dog Sandy on the cup in black Sharpie—and before she left the shop, she told me something that kinda surprised me.”

  Tasha leans forward, eyebrows sky-high, with a look that practically screams, “Whaaat???”

  “This woman told me that she had kept almost every coffee cup I had ever given her. Dozens of cups with my drawings on each of them. She told me she used a hole puncher and threaded some yarn through all of the empty cups, like a string of paper lanterns, and she put them up inside her cubicle at work. She told me those drawings always made her smile. She wanted to tell me how much she appreciated my doodles and how I always brightened her day. I literally could not believe it. I mean, I’m not even that good at drawing . . .”

  Tasha’s pen comes to a halt. She listens intently to my story as if it’s the most fascinating thing she’s heard in her entire life. My words trail off awkwardly. I glance up to meet her gaze.

  “Nora,” she says. “I have a suspicion about you.”

  “What’s that?”

  She smiles knowingly.

  “You are a daymaker.”

  “A what?”

  “Daymaker,” she repeats. “Haven’t you heard that term before? It’s a term that a man named David Wagner came up with. He’s an entrepreneur here in Minneapolis. He’s one of my personal heroes, actually. It means that when someone comes into your life, you ‘make their day.’ You don’t even have to try that hard. You can’t help it. It’s just who you are. You are thoughtful and caring and creative, and you want people to be happy.”

  She continues:

  “I bet with every single job you’ve had, you were the brightest spark in everyone’s day. I bet every single manager hated to see you go and begged you to stay. I bet customers arranged their schedules so that they would make sure to swing by during your shift. I bet that woman wasn’t the only customer who loved every coffee cup drawing that you did. I bet you touched many people’s lives. More than you realize.”

  “Daymaker,” I repeat back. I like the sound of that. And weirdly enough, I think she’s right.

  My work history might be scattered and eclectic—compared to some people’s, I guess—but I’ve always made it my personal mission to leave other people in better condition than I found them. I know how to make customers feel special and appreciated. I can always make my coworkers crack a smile, even the jaded ones who are just trudging along towards retirement. Even back when I worked as a lifeguard at a summer camp, over a decade ago, I always went above and beyond the call of duty. I always made an effort to talk to the shy kids who were afraid of the deep end so they wouldn’t feel so alone. It’s true. I love making people’s days better. I always have.

  Damn.

  Maybe my life wasn’t just a scattered waste, a trail of career indecision.

  Maybe I did make a difference in a few people’s lives.

  “Jesus, Tasha . . .” I say, feeling all the loose, ragged ends of my story knit neatly together. “You just changed my entire opinion of myself. What you said … it just means a lot to me. Thank you. So much.”

  “Shall we toast to that?” she giggles, already rising to fix us another round of cocktails.

  “Yeah. Let’s.”

  We clink glasses again, sipping our champagne-infused drinks a bit more slowly this time, savoring each sparkle and bubble.

  “Next question,” she continues. “What is something you’ve always wanted to do that you never got around to? Something you were always saving for ‘someday’ in the future?”

  “What, you mean like, skydiving?”

  “Is skydiving something you’ve always wanted to do?” The tone in her voice reads, “Because we can make than happen. I know people. With parachutes.”

  “Not particularly,” I reply.

  “So what then? Any guilty pleasures … secret dreams . . . ?”

  I take another sip of my drink, feeling incredibly boring because of what I am about to confess.

  “Um, this is probably totally lame, but . . .”

  Tasha’s eyes are gleaming. She’s unconsciously pressing herself over the desk, inching closer to me. I can tell she lives for this. I continue.

  “. . . I have always been curious about online dating.”

  “Curious? Like, you mean, curious to try it?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, I know that tons of people are doing it, and it’s not that special or unusual these days, but for whatever reason, I never gave it a shot. I always thought about it but never did it. Just nervous, I guess.”

  “What is it about online dating that appeals to you?” she asks.

  My mind drifts back to my childhood home. A two-bedroom apartment near Elliot Park. Hardwood floors that needed a good polishing, but never got one. Glass-paned windows with copper locks that frosted over during the wintertime and fogged up with heat during the summer. Mom and dad slow dancing to Puccini, laughing, whispering, kissing, and sneaking a quick ass-squeeze while pasta simmers on the stove. I’m hiding under the table, a little too young to understand what makes this scene so compelling, but I am awestruck nonetheless. I can’t take my eyes away. It’s true love. I know it.

  My mind sifts through fragmented stories, floating back to the legendary story of how my parents first met. It was a party thrown by a mutual acquaintance. Neither of them had intended to attend. Except they did. A last-minute choice. A chance meeting. The chemistry was instant, they never parted, and the rest was history.

  I’ve never experienced a love like they shared. It’s something I always yearned for. Beneath my slight tendency towards sarcasm and the fierce independence that I inherited from my mom, the truth is, I’m a total softie marshmallow mush-pile and a hopeless romantic. It’s just I never got the chance to experience deep, crazy, Nicholas Sparks-level love. I searched. I tried. I just never found it. Nothing even close.

  “Online dating?” Tasha pipes up again, waiting for my response. “Why is it something you want to try?”

  I blurt out my response.

  “Because I think my soul mate is out there somewhere. And maybe he wants to meet me. Badly. Just as badly as I want to meet him.”

  “Nora, are you aware that you literally started glowing just now? Your face, your skin, everything. You’re radiant. This needs to happen. WE ARE MAKING THIS HAPPEN!”

  She’s not actually screaming at me, but the intensity of her voice is bordering on “five alarm fire emergency.”

  “What, you mean like … make an online dating profile? For me? Right now??”

  “YESSSS!”

  OK, now she’s screaming at me. But it’s a loving, supportive kind of scream.

  Before I have time to register what is happening, she has pulled up an array of different dating websites in various tabs on her iPad.

  “Any preference?�
�� she asks, clicking swiftly through each tab. “Tinder? Bumble? OKCupid? Lather? Frackle? Matchee?”

  I wave my hands dismissively. Don’t care. Whatever.

  “I’ll choose one then,” she announces. Before I have time to blink—or protest—she’s snapping photos of me with the camera on her tablet.

  “For your profile!” she explains mid-snap.

  Embarrassed, I glance down at my hands. I hear the shutter-clicks come to a stop.

  Finally. Relieved, I look up with a smile.

  CLICK.

  One last guerilla shot.

  “That’s the one!” she cries, flipping the screen around to show me.

  I grimace, bracing myself. I’ve never been entirely stoked about how I look in photos. But maybe she’s a photographic genius, or maybe she just caught me at the right moment, because this time, I am pleasantly surprised.

  I lean closer towards the photo on her screen. My skin looks soft and smooth, dotted with freckles across my cheekbones. My smile is warm and relaxed, showing just a hint of the small gap between my front teeth—the one that everybody except my mom and dad encouraged me to get “fixed.” My dark hair is half-covering part of my cheek, falling in curls down my shoulders and back.

  “Gorgeous,” Tasha declares, and I have to agree. Not half bad.

  With staggering speed, she fills out a profile for me—presumably drawing upon details from our “client intake” chat, bolstered by her own imagination. I lean back, savoring the rest of my drink, letting her work her magic.

  “One last section. Favorite food, favorite book, sexual orientation.” Easy enough.

  “Burgers, The Magicians, straight … ish,” I clarify.

  “Favorite quote?”

  “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

  “Which was said by … ?”

  “Oscar Wilde.”

  “Perfection,” she coos, flipping the tablet around once again, handing it to me.

  I skim through the profile that she’s whipped together. It’s simple. Bare bones. Not too much information. Just the basics. My smiling, freckled, slightly gap-toothed face grins back at me. I shrug.

  “Good enough, I guess?”

  Ping.

  A digital note fills the room, and Tasha grabs the tablet from my hands with the enthusiasm of a velociraptor tearing into a fresh New York strip steak.

  “OMG!!!!!!” she squeals. “You already got a star. Not just gold. A PLATINUM star!” She’s practically trembling with excitement. I can’t help but get swept up into her tizzy.

  “That means he really likes you. OH my GOD. He’s cute. And he’s online right now. Should we message him?”

  I shrug again, getting the feeling that “no” is a response that will not be tolerated.

  “We’re messaging him,” she agrees with … herself.

  “Hey there . . .” she dictates aloud, typing into the tablet, eyeing me for approval. “Thanks for the platinum star. You’re crazy hot.”

  “Stop right there,” I intervene. “I would never say that.”

  “What?”

  “Crazy hot.”

  “OK, well, what would you say?”

  I tug the tablet out of her hands and gaze at this mysterious platinum-star-doling gentleman. I do my best not to gawk. Because she’s right. He’s … crazy hot. Like “hottt,” triple-t hot.

  He’s tall, not bulkily muscled, but toned, with jet black hair knotted into a bun on the top of his head. Shaved on the sides. A vibrant tattoo curls up the side of his neck, giving him a punky samurai vibe.

  In one profile photo, he’s wearing a crisp white uniform, and he appears to be teaching kids how to karate-chop a wooden block into two chunks. The kids are gazing at him with obvious adoration. Some kind of martial arts instructor, maybe? He’s definitely fit and athletic. But what really grips me are his eyes. Dark hazel-honey-colored eyes, fringed with unfairly long lashes. I could fall into those eyes and keep falling forever. . . .

  I realize my jaw is hanging open ever-so-slightly. I look up at Tasha, and she’s staring at me with a “told you so … ” smirk.

  I skim through the non-photography portion of his profile.

  Apparently, he loves listening to The Chainsmokers (me too), Chopin (unexpected choice, very cool) and reading “the latest article on Vice.com and also poetry by Rumi and Hafiz.”

  “Sooo?” Tasha breaks my reverie. “You have GOT to send a message to him. What are you going to write?”

  Maybe it’s the fact that I’m already two cocktails deep, or the fact that I have absolutely nothing to lose, but I instantly know what my approach is going to be.

  From memory, I type a short poem directly into the message field. It’s a poem about a mystical game of tag where God says, “Tag, you’re it!” and wonderful things transpire. “Major-league wonderful,” the poet says. It’s one of my favorites.

  I hit “send” and hand the tablet back to Tasha.

  She skims through my note and gives me a “WTF?” expression.

  “It’s a poem. A pretty famous one. He’ll recognize it … I think,” I respond.

  She smiles kindly, flicking through a few more profiles, checking to see if I have any other potential matches.

  Ping.

  She taps the screen and says nothing, biting back emotion. She turns the screen to me. AikidoGuy82 has responded to my message. Already.

  Thirty-three words that thrill me, sending tendrils of heat up my spine.

  Hey. I love that poem. I’m off work in 30 minutes. I know this is super spontaneous, but I’m actually free this afternoon. Want to meet up? Let me know. Tag you’re it.

  I glance at Tasha and she nods empathically. YES.

  I type back.

  OK, sure!

  And then, because it’s one of my favorite places in town, I add, Let’s meet by the cherry-spoon at the Walker Sculpture Garden. I click SEND and hold my breath.

  His reply comes instantly.

  See you there.

  Hour Ten

  “MAKEOVER!!!!” Tasha squeals, with the eardrum-shattering decibel level of a rocket breaking through the sound barrier.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Uh, NO I am not kidding. This might be the last date of your entire life—no offense—and you are going to look one thousand percent boner-rific.”

  I glance at my gray cotton cargo pants and baggy white T-shirt—the clothes they doled out to me at the hospital. Barely one step up from hospital scrubs.

  “Not boner-rific enough?” I ask in mock astonishment.

  “Nora, you’d look hot wearing a filthy burlap sack . . .” she says, grinning, “But why not pull out all the stops? How much time until your date?”

  “About thirty minutes. Not much time.”

  She blows out her cheeks, sighing with irritation. I get the sense that her typical morning routine begins at 4 a.m. with a deep conditioning hair masque and concludes with a double set of false eyelashes at a quarter to noon.

  “Not ideal, but that will have to do. Let’s get started.”

  Twenty minutes later, my hair has been styled into soft mermaid waves, my eyelids have been lined with charcoal-black liner and dusted with shimmery powder, my lips have been glossed with some kind of coconut-scented situation, and my body has been arranged into a soft dress with a scooping back and deep pockets in the front. I like the pockets most of all. Somewhere to hide my nervous hands.

  Tasha doesn’t have a bra that fits me, so I go without, which is my preference anyway. She whips through a couple of scarves, bags, and accessories from a hidden closet that has basically dropped from the wall like one of those magical fold-out Murphy beds.

  “Shoe size?”

  “Eight,” I reply.

  She tosses me a pa
ir of leather sandals. Flat and very chic. Navy blue silk ties wrap around the ankles. They’re very summery and surprisingly comfortable.

  “My sister works for a clothing and shoe designer in Manhattan,” she says, by way of explanation. “She ships me a truckload of free stuff every season.”

  “Wow.”

  She shoots me a look that says, “I know. I would murder without remorse for that kind of workplace perk.”

  “OK!” she says, taking a few steps back to appraise me. “Twirl.”

  I comply, fanning my arms out for dramatic effect, like a jubilant woman in a Tampon commercial who has just discovered that, YES, she CAN play volleyball on the beach in a string bikini without having to worry about a goddamn thing.

  Tasha giggles.

  “Nora, you look . . .” she dabs her eyes, and I wish she’d stop, because I’m teetering on the edge of another emotional meltdown myself. I’m swinging between elation and despair. This day is the biggest rollercoaster. “You look … you look so ALIVE.”

  I smile weakly. I can feel the tears coming. Goddamn it. Again?

  She senses it, too.

  “No no noooo!” she half-sobs, half-laughs, lunging for the box of Kleenex. “I worked too hard on that smoky eye. No tears. Cut it out.”

  We both collapse into giggles, and for a moment, our souls are transported back to another time—another lifetime, maybe. It’s summertime, and we’re bunkmates at camp, play-fighting over who gets to keep the “BE FRI” half of the heart necklace and who gets “ST ENDS.”

  Our eyes lock. I wonder if she feels this multiple-lifetimes-of-connection-forever sensation too, or if it’s just a one-sided delusion. She smiles again. I think she feels it, too. I’m choosing to believe it’s true.

  “I should get going,” I say.

  “Already called you an Uber,” she responds, tapping her phone. “And … your driver is here. Downstairs, waiting by the curb. Get going. Have fun!”