by Helen Hoang
FIVE
Quan
It’s Friday night, and I’m unwinding from a long week, with an entire pizza to myself, a cold beer, and this documentary about an octopus. I haven’t had a social life in two years, so I’ve basically watched all of Netflix by now, even that series about the samurai assassin who gets paid to kill a cat. Lucky for me, the ocean fascinates me, and I think octopuses are cool.
But when the burned-out filmmaker befriends the octopus and they shake hand and tentacle, I don’t know, I’m . . . sad. I find myself scrolling through the dating apps that I neglected all week. I’ve been matched with a bunch of people.
Tammy. Light hair, dark eyes, great smile, great body. She wants to have a big family, loves craft beer, and is training to be a special-ed teacher. I sigh. She’s perfect—if I’m looking for a girlfriend. Which I’m not. Pass.
Naomi. Gorgeous brown eyes, mysterious smile, curves for days. A business executive who dreams of traveling the world with a special someone. I like everything about her, but that has serious relationship written all over it. Pass.
Sara looks like an honest-to-God Barbie doll and just wants a fun time. My interest is definitely piqued. Until I read further and see she’s considering adding a seventh man to her harem. I’ve tried some wild shit in my day, but an eight-person orgy is not what I had in mind for my first time back, or ever, to be honest. Pass.
Savannah, pass. Ingrid, pass. Jenny, pass. Murphy? Wow, okay, Murphy is drop-dead gorgeous, volunteers at nursing homes, and—the kicker—is saving their virginity for true love. Pass.
Naya. Fran. Penelope. Pass. Pass. Pass.
I’m thinking I need to switch apps or narrow my search criteria when I come across Anna. Her picture is so sweet that I almost skip her on principle, but I keep looking because I can’t help myself. She’s got a self-conscious smile and dark eyes that manage to be soft yet penetrating. They draw me in.
In her profile, she says, “Looking to spend an uncomplicated evening with someone nice. Just one night, please.” Under occupation and hobbies, it says, “Not applicable.”
Her picture and profile seem so out of tune that I look back and forth a bunch of times, trying to understand how they belong to the same person. Based on her photograph, I’d say she’s the serial monogamist type who should be looking for flowers and forever, not a meaningless hookup.
Maybe she’s going through some life stuff and just wants to blow off steam. I can appreciate that. It’s not so different from what I’m trying to achieve.
I shake my head at myself as I tap on the button to message her privately. With a profile like that, she’s probably got hundreds of messages in her inbox already. I’m not the kind of guy who gives up without trying, though, so I give myself a moment to think, decide honesty is best, and start typing.
Hey Anna,
I like how direct you are. Right now I’m eating pizza and watching the last thing on Netflix that I haven’t seen before. Free to talk if you want.
Q
I send the message, turn my phone’s screen off, and toss it onto the couch next to me. I’m not going to sit around holding my breath for her to respond to me. Instead, I bite into a fresh slice of everything pizza and switch my attention to the TV, where the octopus is getting chased by a small stripy shark. She jumps out of the water, crawls over land—how boss is that?—and jumps back in, only for the shark to pick up where they left off. I’m so absorbed by the scene that I only notice the notification on my phone when I reach for my beer.
I wipe my hands and mouth on a haphazardly torn sheet of paper towel and pick up my phone. I have a message on the app.
Hi Q,
What are you watching?
A
I look up at the screen just as the shark bites the octopus and shakes her from side to side, and I have to laugh, even though I feel horrible for the octopus. A documentary about a dude and an octopus, lol, I tell her, and yeah, maybe my face heats up a little. It would be cooler if I was watching Star Wars or Deadpool or something.
I loved that one! I watched it twice, she admits, and I can’t help grinning. That was the last thing I expected her to say.
This octopus rocks but I think the shark is going to eat more than just her leg this time.
Keep watching, she says.
So I do, and then I reply, I’m so impressed.
Right? She’s amazing. Maybe I need to watch a third time.
I hesitate a couple of seconds before pausing the video and suggesting, I’m at 1:05 if you want to watch the end with me.
She surprises me by saying, Okay. She even adds a smiley face.
We go through the process of syncing our videos, and soon we’re watching together, separately. It’s a weird experience for me. Kind of dorky—wait, very dorky. Let’s not forget what we’re watching here. Normally, people in our situation would be flirting right now. There’d be sexual innuendo, maybe even dirty photos. But I think I like this.
Oh, I love this part, she says.
When I see what she’s talking about, I agree. She’s playing with the fish, not even trying to eat them. I didn’t know an octopus could be so cute.
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.
Suzie replies first this time. OMG, you look great! Have fun!
WHAT?! WHO IS HE? WHAT DOES HE LOOK LIKE? TELL US EVERYTHING!!!!! Rose demands.
I smile with dry lips as I type, Gotta go. So nervous I could barf. I’ll tell you about it later.
With that, I drop my phone into my purse and venture beyond the security of my apartment. I make a detour to the pharmacy, where my merchandise is confusingly located in between ovulation kits and men’s diapers and the high school–aged kid at the cash register is too embarrassed to look at me as he rings up my purchase. Still, I arrive at the bar early enough to grab the last open booth with a view of the street.
I text him, At the bar. Last booth on the right, and then I settle in to wait. The bar has a rugged feel, with old barrels and photographs of farms decorating the walls. It’s fairly busy, but the music isn’t too loud and the lighting is comfortable. It’s pretty easy to pretend confidence and ignore my nerves.
Through the window, I see a motorcycle pull up to the curb. The rider climbs off, pockets his gloves, and removes his helmet, revealing a cleanly shaven scalp that few men can pull off. It works for him, though. Together with his close-fitting motorcycle jacket, black pants, boots, and active build, he looks like a Marvel action hero—or villain. There’s an undeniable edginess to him, something just a bit dangerous. Or maybe a lot dangerous. It’s in the smooth way he moves, the strong but swift lines of his body, the air of steadiness about him.
My entire being goes still as recognition hits me. It’s him. He’s not just a profile on a website. That badass tattooed guy in the picture, the one who I thought was perfectly discardable because he’s so far from being suitable for me. He’s a real person with a life and a past and feelings. And he’s here.
As I watch, he clips his helmet to the back of his bike. Close to another helmet that’s strapped to the far end of the seat. Two helmets. It looks like he brought one for me.
For whatever reason, that sends a jolt of pure panic to my chest. My anxiety grows when he digs his phone from his pocket, taps out a quick message, and my own phone, which is sitting faceup on the table, illuminates with the words, Just got here.
My muscles tense, and pinpricks of sensation wash over my skin. I tell myself this is just a meaningless date, a one-night stand. People do this all the time.
The problem is I don’t know if I can do this. What if in trying to be true to myself, I’m unkind to him? He looks tough, but that doesn’t mean he’s made of stone. What if I hurt him?
When he disappears toward the front doors of the bar, this feeling of wrongness intensifies. It blows out of proportion. It explodes.
I can’t control myself. I gather my things. And I run. There isn’t a line for the bathroom, so I don’t need to wait to lock myself in one of the stalls. Sitting on the toilet and hugging my phone and purse to my chest, I rock back and forth. I tap my teeth together, comforted by
the feel of it. My face burns. There’s a roaring in my ears.
My phone buzzes with messages, but I don’t look. I don’t want to see. I just want him to go away, so I can go home and pretend this never happened. I need to find a different way to solve my problem, but I’ll do it later, when I can think.
I wait, counting seconds in my head. A minute goes by. Another. I lose track of my counting—I’ve never been good at remembering numbers—so I start back at one and simply focus on counting to sixty again and again.
When a good amount of time has passed and I get another text message, I’m calm enough to look at my phone.
Hey, I think I’m at the table is his first message.
Then: Are you okay?
Followed by: I guess something came up.
His most recent message says, I’m heading out. Worried about you.
I cover my eyes with a palm. Why does he have to be so nice? This would be easier if he was more of an asshole. Relieved, and guilty about it, I hurry from the bathroom.
And collide with him.
Firm chest. Solid body. Warm. Alive. Real.
This is horrible. Absolutely horrible.
His hands wrap around my upper arms for an instant as he puts space between us, and the shock of his touch reverberates through me.
“Hey,” he says, his expression blank with surprise.
My lips form the word hey, but my vocal chords refuse to make a sound. His throat is directly at my eye level, and I’m staring straight at the swirling calligraphy inked into his skin.
Tattoos.
On his neck.
Neck tattoos.
I knew that he had lots of tattoos, but somehow it’s different seeing him—them—in person. Classical musicians don’t get tattooed like this. Or have shaved heads and ride motorcycles and look like sexy villains. None that I know, anyway. One probably exists somewhere. Part of me thought it would be an adventure to try something new and be with a guy like this tonight.