Epiphany Jones by Michael Grothaus Page B

not really like that,’ I type.
    ‘PICS please,’ Halfling types.
    And I type, ‘I don’t have pictures. It’s not like we sit around photographing ourselves.’
    And Halfling types, ‘No, I need them for the passports.’
    And this is why Halfling is important. Before I IM’d him, I logged into the museum’s private intranet and I copied the picture used on my museum badge. I send it to Halfling.
    ‘And I need one for your friend. The GIRL,’ he types.
    I type, ‘She doesn’t like pictures.’ I type, ‘I need you to make up a photo for her.’
    And he types ‘…’
    ‘Do you think you could do that,’ I type? ‘If I tell you what she looks like?’
    ‘… Yeah … I can try,’ he types. Slantedface.
    So I tell Halfling what Epiphany looks like. I put it in terms of things he can understand. I say she’s got this actress’s eyes, this one’s jaw, this one’s ear. But I delete that last part before sending. No one has Epiphany’s ear.
    ‘Sounds hot,’ Halfling says. ‘I bet she’s awesome.’
    ‘She’s actually quite a pain,’ I type.
    He types, ‘I bet she smells good.’
    I never noticed.
    He types, ‘It must be so great to have someone around.’
    No, it’s not.
    He types, ‘To have company.’
    Not hers.
    He types, ‘I’d kill to have a little attention from a girl. To wonder where you are at night. To wonder what you’re doing.’
    Not this kind of attention. Not this kind of wondering.
    ‘What’s her name? For the passports?’
    And I type, ‘I don’t want you to use my real name.’
    Halfling says no problem, he’ll use his dad’s name for me.
    ‘The other name? Hers?’ he types.
    Bitch. Devil. Satan. Plague. Scourge. Nightmare of nightmares. All appropriate names, but all would look suspicious on a passport.
    And as I’m going through curses in my head for Epiphany, the door to the apartment opens and the devil herself comes in with an orange plastic bag. The crinkly ones you get at grocery stores. I’m on the couch typing; the laptop’s lid is back to her. I’m watching the screen, watching her watching me, wondering what I’m typing, if I can be trusted.
    ‘The other name?’ Halfling types again.
    I’m wondering what Epiphany has in the orange bag. If it’s just another thing to threaten me with.
    Onscreen, Halfling types, ‘What’s her name.’
    She’s just standing in the doorway looking at me.
    Halfling types, ‘HER NAME PLEASE.’
    And looking at Epiphany, I type her name. Then I delete it before I press send, and I type, ‘Fanny.’
    And on the screen, Halfling types, ‘Old-fashioned, but great. She must be awesome.’
    And I’m looking at Epiphany, wondering if that orange plastic bag is to put over my head. To cut off my air supply.
    ‘You don’t know her,’ I type. ‘She’s not that awesome.’
    And Epiphany, just when I think she’s going to accuse me of trying to do something funny, trying to fool her; just as I think she’s going to say, ‘Don’t make me suffocate you,’ she reaches into the orange crinkly bag and pulls out one of those convenience-store sandwiches. The kind in the little triangular plastic cartons. The kind with the processed, wafer-thin ham and cheese that was probably made in some big factory eight months ago.
    And Epiphany, she says, ‘I thought you looked hungry.’
    She says, ‘I brought you food.’
    And onscreen, Halfling is typing, ‘You’re probably right, man. Girls are a pain. We’re better off without them.’
    Epiphany, she says, ‘I didn’t know which you might like, so I brought you two,’ and pulls out a roast beef with mayo sandwich.
    ‘She’s probably a total bitch,’ Halfling types.
    Well, I guess she’s not all bad…
    Epiphany takes out a bottle. ‘And I got you water.’
    ‘A fucking nightmare,’ Halfling types.
    She can be nice.
    ‘Stupid broads,’ Halfling types.
    ‘And I brought you a sweet. For dessert,’ Epiphany says and takes a heavily processed piece of freeze-dried