by Zoe Fishman
“Okay, now I’m really leaving,” he informed Kirby.
“Au revoir,” she said, not looking up from her book.
Outside, the air was warm. A wet-warm, the kind that had you sweating after three minutes. Teddy was glad he had reapplied his deodorant. It was a fifteen-minute walk to the Waffle House from the shelter and then forty minutes home; he had Google Mapped it on his computer the night before.
On the way to work, Teddy had told his mother that he would be staying later than usual, that Kirby would drive him home.
“Kirby? The young woman with the T-shirt? No, I’ll come get you, it’s fine.”
“Mom, it’s cool. She said it was no problem,” Teddy had lied, looking out the window of the car to avoid her gaze. “Mom, seriously. Watch the road. It’s fine.”
“Okay,” she had agreed, not sounding agreeable at all.
It wasn’t that Teddy thought his parents wouldn’t approve—as a matter of fact, he was fairly certain they would be overjoyed to know that he was going on a date—but Teddy wanted to keep it, wanted to keep everything about Krystal, his for now. There wasn’t much he could call his own—his parents were the judge and jury of everything in his life—so he would have this, even if this didn’t last past this waffle, for himself. Though he hoped it did.
He hoped that he was overthinking her dark humor. Probably. Teddy was funny; his humor was versatile. He would be more open-minded, he decided.
The yellow-and-black sign loomed ahead of him. Teddy checked his watch. He would be punctual, which might not be the coolest move, but Teddy was perfectly fine with the fact that he was not cool. Most of the time.
Through the glass door, he could see her. His heart fluttered in his chest. He was glad he was not see-through, although that was a good idea. A human who was entirely see-through in a world of regular humans: blood pumping, muscles contracting and releasing, emotions levitating organs. Quickly, Teddy moved away from the door and out of sight. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket, leaning his back against the redbrick wall to jot it down.
“You gonna keep me waiting all day or what?”
Teddy stopped abruptly, shoving the notebook back in his pocket. Krystal. Her brown hair was wild and free, curling up and around her head in a narrow halo before exploding into more defined ringlets down her back. She was wearing the same purple mascara. Besides that, her face was bare, the perfect heart he remembered. She had on a pink T-shirt and cut-off shorts, revealing her long, long legs. Daryl Hannah legs. On Krystal’s feet were the same fuchsia flip-flops. Her toes were painted a glittery silver.
“Hi,” Teddy offered, extending his hand.
“Are you fixin’ to shake my hand?” asked Krystal, smiling broadly to reveal a gap between her front teeth that Teddy had not noticed before.
“I am,” answered Teddy. “I didn’t mean to do that; it just sort of happened.” He was mortified. What was wrong with him? This was not a job interview.
“It’s okay, don’t get all red,” said Krystal, taking his hand and pulling him inside. “It’s cute. Now come on, I have a booth by the window.” She walked in front of him, her hand a leash, still holding his. He was holding hands with Krystal; he couldn’t believe it. She let his go, sliding into her side, over the cracked red vinyl of the booth.
“Have a seat,” she instructed. “I already got you a water. Ice cold. Put a straw in it too.”
“Thanks,” said Teddy, struggling out of his backpack and shoving it toward the window. He slid in himself and took a big sip.
“Hi,” he said, after he had swallowed. He took a deep breath. “I’m nervous.”
“I’m Krystal,” she replied. “Nice to meet you.”
“Funny,” he said.
“Well, I’m nervous too, duh! It’s good to see you.” She took her own sip. “You know, there’s not one photo of you on the World Wide Web? It’s crazy.”
“Really? Not one?” This was not a surprise, he supposed. He didn’t have any hobbies that involved other people, that involved obligatory photographs.
But. Krystal had googled him. She had looked for him. Sitting across from her, it seemed even more impossible, but facts were facts. She liked him.
“I’m an international man of mystery,” he said.
“Indeed.”
“There’s not much of you either, you know.” A waitress came to their table.
“So he’s here,” she said to Krystal, smiling at both of them.
“He is. He loves the water. Thank you.”
“Oh, my pleasure. Brewed it myself out back. Now what can I get y’all?”
“I just want a waffle,” said Krystal. “Just a big ol’ waffle.”
“Me too,” said Teddy, remembering that he had fantasized about saying I’ll have what she’s having too late. It would have been so perfect. Oh well.
“Two big ol’ waffles comin’ up.” She turned and left. Teddy looked around. He and Krystal were the only people there, which he guessed made sense for 3:00 P.M. on a Saturday. It was too late for brunch, too early for dinner.
“So where were you?” asked Krystal. “Grooming dogs?”
“Yeah. For my Mitzvah Project.”
“What’s that?” asked Krystal.
“Well, if you’re Jewish, you’re supposed to get Bar M—” began Teddy, launching into the speech he gave every time someone asked.
“I know what a Bar Mitzvah is, genius,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But what’s this project business?”
“Oh, sorry,” said Teddy. “That’s cool, that you know. I feel like most people don’t.”
“Sure, I know. It’s when you get your peepee snipped off and then there’s a party with a deejay and stuff.”
“What?” asked Teddy, choking on his water.
“What?” Krystal echoed, her voice faltering as her bravado cracked, just a little.
“That’s a bris,” said Teddy as gently as he could. “That happens when you’re born. And they don’t, you know, cut it off.” He was red from the tips of his toes to the top of his forehead, he just knew it. “They just snip the foreskin.” And now Krystal was red too.
“A Bar Mitzvah is when a Jewish boy reads from the Torah and becomes a man or whatever, according to Jewish law. Then there’s a deejay,” he explained.
“Oh my God, I’m an idiot,” said Krystal, fading to pink. “I can’t believe that’s what I thought. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” said Teddy. “I’m not sure I’ve met someone, like, our age, who truly knows what it is.”
“I mean, I did think it was unnaturally cruel to mess with teenage boys’ peepees,” Krystal whispered. “But I did know it was just a snip, not, you know, the whole thing.”
Teddy nodded.
“Anyway, now that we’ve got that ironed out . . .” said Krystal, regaining her composure. The waitress arrived with their waffles, plunking them down on the table.
“Y’all need anything else?” she asked, refilling their waters.
“Nope, looks perfect,” said Krystal.
“What about you?” she asked Teddy.
“All set, thank you.”
“So you read from the Torah and you have a deejay,” continued Krystal, pouring a generous pool of syrup into the center of her waffle. Teddy watched it spread, filling each crevice before overflowing onto the white plate.
“Basically. Plus I have to talk about my project.” He set to work cutting his waffle.
“What are you doing?” asked Krystal, spearing a bite of hers onto her fork.
“I cut, and then I pour,” Teddy explained.
“Interesting technique.”
He nodded, continuing diligently as his stomach growled.
“So what’s the Mitzvah Project all about?” she asked.
Teddy poured the remaining quarter of the syrup in the decanter onto the myriad golden squares decorating his plate and took a bite. “Mitzvah in Hebrew means ‘good deed.’ I have to do a good deed for a year and wr
ite about it. In a nutshell.”
“But you said last night that you don’t even like animals,” said Krystal.
“I don’t.” Teddy shrugged and took another bite.
“Wouldn’t you rather be doing something that you enjoyed?” Krystal talked with her mouth full, her hand with its purple fingernails almost but not quite covering it.
“But it’s not about me,” explained Teddy.
“But if you don’t even like the dogs and cats or whatever, I mean, wouldn’t they be better off with someone who actually enjoyed hanging out with them?”
“Krystal, it’s not like I’m hurting them or anything, geez.”
“I just think you should do something else.”
“But I’m almost done,” said Teddy. “I have, like, two months left.”
“Two months is eight weeks. Why don’t you do something with movies? You love movies.”
“It’s too late,” said Teddy.
“You should host a movie night at the place my mom works,” said Krystal, not giving up.
“Where does your mom work?”
“Twilight Manor.”
Krystal had eaten all of her waffle at what Teddy considered an alarming pace and was now using her spoon to deliver the remaining syrup into her mouth.
“That old-people place?”
Teddy had driven past it hundreds if not thousands of times. It was big and cream-colored, with a fancy awning proclaiming “Twilight Manor” in bronze cursive over the entrance. A half-circle drive lay in front of it, like a frown.
“Yeah, she’s a nurse there.”
“What’s with the name?” asked Teddy, taking another bite. “It’s horrible.”
“Yeah. But honestly, what are the options? Death’s Doorway?” She giggled.
“Curtains Condos,” said Teddy.
“No, but seriously,” said Krystal, after they had both stopped laughing. “I’m there, like, all the time, waiting for my mom to get off work. I know a lot of the people there. Some of them are really cool.”
“Cool?” asked Teddy. He didn’t know a lot of old people. His grandparents were technically old, but not Curtains Condos old.
“Yeah. I know at least five that would be totally down for a movie night. None of their kids visit them; it would totally be a mitzvah. And one you enjoyed. A double mitzvah.”
“Mitzvot,” mumbled Teddy, not entirely opposed to her idea. She had a good point.
“What?”
“Mitzvot. Plural of mitzvah,” Teddy explained.
“Oh okay, whatever. Mitzvot.” Krystal took the last sip of water through her straw, rattling the two remaining ice cubes in her glass.
“But how do I get out of working at the shelter? What do I tell my mom? And what do I do about my report?”
“I dunno,” said Krystal. “I can’t do everything for you. You’re a smart dude; you’ll figure it out. But here, I brought a card from Twilight, with the number and stuff. Call and ask for Jackie Jones; she’s the boss. Tell her I sent you.”
“Thanks,” said Teddy, taking the card. “Have you seen Splash?”
“Who?”
“Splash, the movie? From the eighties?”
“No. Who watches movies from the eighties? See, this is why you would be perfect.”
“It’s about a mermaid who walks on land in New York City. Just for a little bit.”
“I’m not into sci-fi,” said Krystal.
“No, no, it’s not sci-fi. It’s a rom-com that somehow manages to suspend your disbelief. Like, I know and you know that mermaids don’t exist, but the movie is so charming that you buy it.”
“Okay, if you say so,” said Krystal. “I’m not much of a rom-com girl. I’m more into blood and guts.”
“And body bags,” said Teddy. “I don’t think I liked American Psycho,” he admitted.
“So we agree to disagree. No big deal,” said Krystal.
“Anyway, you look like the mermaid. Daryl Hannah,” said Teddy.
Krystal smiled. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll google her.”
Teddy nodded.
“Listen, I have to go; there’s my mom,” said Krystal, pointing to the parking lot. Behind the glass of her windshield, Teddy saw Patty Platt furiously texting.
“After you,” said Teddy. He was sad it was over. There was so much more to discuss.
He followed Krystal to the register, noticing unfortunately that she was indeed about an inch taller than him. He had thought as much from their initial encounter but couldn’t be sure. He’d hoped he was wrong.
“Oh no, no, this is on me,” said Teddy, jumping in front of her to hand the check to the cashier.
“Boy, this is 2019. I’m paying for my own waffle, thank you very much,” said Krystal. “Give that back.” She snatched it out of his hand and handed it over.
The cashier smirked as she rang her up.
Chapter Nine
Paul
Paul stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom in only his boxer briefs, surveying himself. He was not happy, not happy at all.
His stomach, first of all. Where had the muscles gone? And from the side . . . was it? It was. A potbelly. He stood up as tall as he possibly could, lessening it considerably, but the moment he exhaled, there it was again. Shit.
And his arms. He needed to do some push-ups. They were as slack as udon noodles.
“Okay, Paul, relax,” he told his reflection. “It’s a body. It can be fixed. When your ankle is better, you will fix it.” He felt slightly crazy.
Life was so short, and bad shit happened to everyone every damn day. A pretty bad something had happened to him, and here he was obsessing about a potbelly. His child had died before she even took her first breath outside the womb, but a potbelly was giving him a panic attack.
“It’s bullshit,” he told himself. “And you know it.”
He had the sudden urge to log onto his computer and buy something. Anything.
“Paul?” Sylvie called from inside the closet.
“Yeah?” he yelled back, quickly moving away from the mirror as if she could see him, a jolt of pain like lightning running from his ankle up his entire left side.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, grabbing his crutches, which were leaning against the wall.
In terms of furniture, their bedroom claimed only the mirror and a king-size bed, swaddled in white, which perched on a very low-to-the-ground wooden platform that had become the bane of Paul’s existence, along with two matching chrome side tables and pale-green reading lamps.
Getting in and out of the bed with a broken ankle was torture on his worst day, comical on his best. But he couldn’t complain about it because that had been exactly Sylvie’s point against the expensive purchase in the first place, which Paul had ignored entirely.
Sylvie’s bedside table held a few books, one collection of short stories that she owned and as far as Paul could tell had never even cracked open, a dog-eared novel from the library and her tortoiseshell glasses, which took up about two-thirds of Sylvie’s face.
“They look like welding goggles,” Paul had told her when she had first tried them on in the store, but Sylvie had just shaken her head in pity for Paul’s apparent lack of eyeglass taste and bought them anyway.
Paul’s bedside table held a copy of Men’s Fitness, which mocked him now from afar, as he shielded his stomach with his free hand, and a Steve Jobs biography. He hadn’t made it past page three and had been reading it for almost two years.
On the far wall were two large windows that were almost but not quite tickled by the branches of a dogwood tree in their front yard. The wall over their bed held an enormous abstract oil-on-canvas painting that his friend Ignatius had given them as a wedding gift. Fuchsia, navy, red, golden yellow and emerald splotches and splashes filled the frame.
Across from the bed, a giant flat-screen television floated on the wall. Once upon a time, Paul and Sylvie had been adamant about never allowing one
into their bedroom, but that time had come and gone. Now, instead of having sex, they binge-watched Breaking Bad. Or, rather, Paul did. Sylvie slept.
Paul hobbled through the bathroom and into the closet to see what Sylvie wanted.
“What do you like better? This dress?” Sylvie held what looked like a navy pillowcase against her chest. “Or this dress?” She placed the hanger on the rack behind her and pulled another pillowcase, this one olive, off its hanger and held it up for his opinion.
“They’re the same dress, no?” asked Paul.
Sylvie rolled her eyes. “No, they are not the same dress, Paul. The navy one has longer sleeves and a boat neck, and the olive one is shorter.”
“Shorter, like, shows-your-legs shorter?” asked Paul.
“What other kind of shorter is there?”
“Legs all the way,” answered Paul. “Skin, I like skin. Some sort of indication that there’s a body underneath all that fabric is a surefire yes from me.”
“Paul, really,” said Sylvie, although she did laugh.
“Sylvie?” asked Paul.
“Yes,” she answered, her voice muffled by the dress as she slid it over her head.
“I just want to say, and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way or anything, but that you seem, I dunno, happier lately?”
Sylvie’s head popped out of the dress, her eyes wide. “Happier?”
“Yeah. Are you, you know, happier?”
Paul braced himself. He wasn’t quite sure how his wife would respond to his observation, but defensive was her usual go-to, or at least it had been since Delilah. No matter what he said, even if he intended it as a compliment, it got flipped on its back, its neck snapped in two between Sylvie’s ferocious jaws.
“I think I may just be,” she said. “But I don’t want to jinx it, so can we not? At least until I’m ready?”
“Absolutely.” Paul smiled as the tension in his body evaporated. She had not bitten his head off; it was a miracle. “I’m just happy for you. That you’re happier.”