Love Is a Canoe: A Novel by Ben Schrank Page A

a thirsty party. Emily loved the olives and began to eat them one at a time, carefully, so the skin didn’t get caught in her teeth. She began to berate herself for not being able to glow from all the warmth in the room. She tried to work up to glowing, or at the least work down from feeling too tall and pale and damp. Did anybody even know who she was? She doubted it. Roman Street was blowing up so fast and it was all about Eli. She watched Eli embrace people. It looked almost like people were waiting in line to get some of his affection. His hair was getting longer. He looked a little bit like Che Guevara. No wonder he’d gotten into the idea of a nonprofit. She turned away and decided she was about ready for her second glass of what was turning out to be some pretty good pinot … Then she looked up and couldn’t find Eli anywhere. She didn’t want to search for him. But she had no choice. She knew nobody. And she was afraid to run into Jenny. Jenny was short. She would keep her eyes aimed high.
    She glanced around the corner into the kitchen and saw him, talking to the husband of an actress whose name she couldn’t recall but who Sherry had kissed once in a play four or five years back. She eavesdropped. They were talking about banjo playing. Eli was a proficient banjo player and an excellent banjo conversationalist. She frowned. This was such a networky event and she was so not a networky person. Eli wasn’t supposed to be either. He was supposed to be charming and awkward. A savant industrial designer slash bike lover slash grease monkey genius. But now she saw, as she glanced around, that if that had ever been true, it wasn’t anymore.
    “Emily?” Someone was calling her name from behind her. She felt a spike of relief. Someone wanted her! Unless it was Jenny? What would she say? You stay away from my husband! How could she say that? She couldn’t.
    She turned fast and bumped into the woman who had called out to her.
    “Ida!” It was Ida Abarra—the novelist whose book she’d bought back in August. Phew.
    They hugged and kissed hello. Ida had a glass of white wine in her hand. She said, “I haven’t seen you in a thousand years. Then I did see you on the street a couple of weeks ago but you were strutting alone and obviously thinking hard about something. I didn’t want to break into your head space.”
    “That’s embarrassing. I hope I didn’t look too crazy,” Emily said. She must be looking like that every night lately, when she was walking home. She smiled at Ida, raised her shoulders and then dropped them.
    “No, just thoughtful,” Ida said. “How are you? Wait. I think I read about your job.” Ida had big eyes—you could see white all the way around her black pupils, and Emily remembered how that made talking to her feel intense no matter what you talked about.
    Ida said, “You’re the person who is going to dream up the name for whatever we all carry around in the future. I read the piece on you in the alumni magazine.”
    “Yeah, that creepy guy from the year below us is running it—Jeremiah Bazelton, bald with Philip Johnson glasses? He won’t stop sending me e-mails. But wait—congratulations on your novel! I bought it.”
    “Have you read it?”
    “Not yet.” Emily looked straight down at the floor.
    “I’m glad. Don’t read it. It’s not that good.” Ida sighed and smiled at Emily. “I’ve made my peace with it.”
    “I’m sure that’s not true. You were the best writer in college.” More than anything, Emily hoped that Ida wouldn’t walk away. Ida held a goblet of white wine that was bigger than everyone else’s glass. She also had a bit of dark hair on her upper lip. And she didn’t seem to give a shit about it and that was really cool.
    Ida said, “Yeah, so what’s your deal? What else do you do when you’re not forecasting the future?”
    “Oh, god. I don’t know. And that’s not really what I do. I’m just a consultant. It’s