tougher backgrounds. A few doctors. A handful of engineers and banker types. One or two working-class characters. Maybe a surfer type. And you’d pretty much be guaranteed to find a good match at that party.”
“Most of that sounds reasonable,” Lily said. I was glad she said “most.” “But I’m not sure you’re describing Dawn’s type.”
What was happening? Based on the gravitational pull he’d exerted on me for the last four years, my type was Robert. But were we really going to say that out loud? Or maybe, I thought again, Lily didn’t even really know that.
“And she’s still single, right?” Rachel replied, without a pause.
“Um, wait a second,” I finally burst in, a little bit like a fireman axing open a door just as he realizes he left his hose downstairs. “I don’t think we’ve established that I’m single,” I fumbled. “I mean fine, I am. But Geez Louise.”
“See that right there,” Lily said. “I think that’s why you have Dawn at the wrong party. Robert and I are the type of people who find ‘Geez Louise’ to be very cute. I don’t think any of those breadbasket boys would appreciate it like we would. She should definitely be at our party.”
This was getting worse and worse. First, she was announcing that she and Robert had collective tastes. And then she was making me sound like a collectible you could carry around in your pocket. Any minute now someone was going to comment on how well I cleaned up.
“I think you should send Dawn to the new immigrant party,” Robert said. “Or maybe the hip-hop superstar party. Or wait, is there a party for people with aliases? That one would definitely do the trick. DJ McJammin, meet Kelly Burns.” I peeked at the wine bottle across the table and noted both that it was sitting right next to Robert and that it was totally empty.
Rachel skated right past the Kelly Burns comment, which must have sounded like pure gibberish to her given the gibberishy ring it had even to those of us who knew about my pen name. “If she didn’t find anybody she liked at the first party,” Rachel said, “we’d start by sending her to another party along the same lines but with new people. And if that still didn’t work, we’d put her in our wild-card group.”
I didn’t want to go to any parties. I just wanted to go home.
“So, let’s sign her up and see,” Robert said.
“Wait, don’t I have to consent to be signed up?”
“Come on, it’ll be an experiment,” he said. “You can write an article on it.”
I rolled my eyes. “About 482 people already wrote that article.”
“Then you can write one of your little stories about it.”
Lily interjected, “I can’t believe you just called them ‘little stories.’ They’re not little stories.”
So Lily was sticking up for me now? Had I said anything to Robert directly, he would have said, “You’re so sensitive. Why are you so sensitive? You need to be more confident. If you were more confident, you wouldn’t care what anyone said. You know who’s successful? Confident people.” Like some Glengarry Glen Ross lecture he was warming up for the pretzel salesforce. And I would have gotten increasingly angry in the back-and-forth, and he would have retrenched even further into his position, and then I would have started crying, and then we would have broken up. I knew, because we’d performed almost that exact script more than once.
“Stories, short stories, great stories,” he said, responding to Lily.
She gave him a slight approving head nod, and just like that we moved on. No escalation. No tears.
“But I agree with Robert,” Lily continued. “I think you should do it, Dawn. It’ll be interesting.”
“Fine,” I said. Partly because of the wine, and partly because all of this—the back-and-forth, the eagle-eyed watching for signs of Robert and Lily’s blooming love, the attempts at conversation with Rachel—had dispirited me. I said fine to be done with
“Most of that sounds reasonable,” Lily said. I was glad she said “most.” “But I’m not sure you’re describing Dawn’s type.”
What was happening? Based on the gravitational pull he’d exerted on me for the last four years, my type was Robert. But were we really going to say that out loud? Or maybe, I thought again, Lily didn’t even really know that.
“And she’s still single, right?” Rachel replied, without a pause.
“Um, wait a second,” I finally burst in, a little bit like a fireman axing open a door just as he realizes he left his hose downstairs. “I don’t think we’ve established that I’m single,” I fumbled. “I mean fine, I am. But Geez Louise.”
“See that right there,” Lily said. “I think that’s why you have Dawn at the wrong party. Robert and I are the type of people who find ‘Geez Louise’ to be very cute. I don’t think any of those breadbasket boys would appreciate it like we would. She should definitely be at our party.”
This was getting worse and worse. First, she was announcing that she and Robert had collective tastes. And then she was making me sound like a collectible you could carry around in your pocket. Any minute now someone was going to comment on how well I cleaned up.
“I think you should send Dawn to the new immigrant party,” Robert said. “Or maybe the hip-hop superstar party. Or wait, is there a party for people with aliases? That one would definitely do the trick. DJ McJammin, meet Kelly Burns.” I peeked at the wine bottle across the table and noted both that it was sitting right next to Robert and that it was totally empty.
Rachel skated right past the Kelly Burns comment, which must have sounded like pure gibberish to her given the gibberishy ring it had even to those of us who knew about my pen name. “If she didn’t find anybody she liked at the first party,” Rachel said, “we’d start by sending her to another party along the same lines but with new people. And if that still didn’t work, we’d put her in our wild-card group.”
I didn’t want to go to any parties. I just wanted to go home.
“So, let’s sign her up and see,” Robert said.
“Wait, don’t I have to consent to be signed up?”
“Come on, it’ll be an experiment,” he said. “You can write an article on it.”
I rolled my eyes. “About 482 people already wrote that article.”
“Then you can write one of your little stories about it.”
Lily interjected, “I can’t believe you just called them ‘little stories.’ They’re not little stories.”
So Lily was sticking up for me now? Had I said anything to Robert directly, he would have said, “You’re so sensitive. Why are you so sensitive? You need to be more confident. If you were more confident, you wouldn’t care what anyone said. You know who’s successful? Confident people.” Like some Glengarry Glen Ross lecture he was warming up for the pretzel salesforce. And I would have gotten increasingly angry in the back-and-forth, and he would have retrenched even further into his position, and then I would have started crying, and then we would have broken up. I knew, because we’d performed almost that exact script more than once.
“Stories, short stories, great stories,” he said, responding to Lily.
She gave him a slight approving head nod, and just like that we moved on. No escalation. No tears.
“But I agree with Robert,” Lily continued. “I think you should do it, Dawn. It’ll be interesting.”
“Fine,” I said. Partly because of the wine, and partly because all of this—the back-and-forth, the eagle-eyed watching for signs of Robert and Lily’s blooming love, the attempts at conversation with Rachel—had dispirited me. I said fine to be done with
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