I worried for a second she was going to try to discourage me further from choosing this puppy. She studied us both for a moment as I held the runt protectively, and eventually her face softened and relented. I wondered if she wasn’t just relieved to have someone take the runt so she could charge more for the rest of her flawless litter.
“Seems like she kind of chose you.” And then, after a beat, “I suppose that’s how it works.” She finished with the off-center smile of a car salesman who’s just sold a lemon for nearly full price.
I tell Lily this story over the Monopoly board and she seems satisfied. Touched, even. I smile at her, but sideways so I don’t have to acknowledge the octopus. She shakes her head and her ears flop back and forth and the familiar chime of her collar and dog tags jingle the room alive. It’s only after she stops that I realize I’ve been gripping my chair so tightly my fingers are white. I suppose I was hoping she would shake her head so violently that the octopus would lose its grip, sail across the room, and splat against the wall, dying instantly.
For the first time tonight I look at her head-on, and the octopus is still there, still holding on tight, only now (and I kid you not) the son of a bitch is smiling at me.
You motherfucker.
Lily looks at me, confused. “What?”
I compose myself as quickly as I can. “It’s your turn,” I say, hoping to reengage her in the game.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is. You rolled double fours so you get to roll again. Do you want me to roll for you?”
“Does it look like I’ve suddenly grown hands?” She’s learned that sarcasm from me, something I used to be proud of but now find abrasive.
I roll the dice. Double twos. Lily and I look at each other for a few long seconds—both of us know what it means. I reluctantly pick up her battleship and move it directly to Jail.
Saturday Late Afternoon
There are times when Los Angeles is the most magical city on Earth. When the Santa Ana winds sweep through and the air is warm and so, so clear. When the jacaranda trees bloom in the most brilliant lilac-violet. When the ocean sparkles on a warm February day and you’re pushing fine grains of sand through your bare toes while the rest of the country is hunkered down under blankets slurping soup. But other times—like when the jacaranda trees drop their blossoms in an eerie purple rain—Los Angeles feels like only a half-formed dream. Like perhaps the city was founded as a strip mall in the early 1970s and has no real reason to exist. An afterthought from the designer of some other, better city. A playground made only for attractive people to eat expensive salads.
I’m flipping through a menu of such salads, overwhelmed with the ridiculousness of it all. Do I want a dressed array of greens with pickled yardlong beans? Perhaps I am more in the mood for sautéed beetroot and chicory. Or do I go all in with the fifty-ingredient Guatemalan salad? This is the city I live in. Can I even name fifty salad ingredients? I purse my lips with indecision. They feel dry.
“I think I’m addicted to ChapStick.” I look up. Did I just say that out loud?
“How can you be addicted to ChapStick?” he asks, tossing back the last of his drink. His forehead is dripping sweat, but I don’t think it’s nerves. I think he’s just the kind of guy who sweats a lot.
“Someone once told me they put trace amounts of ground-up glass in ChapStick. That’s how they get you addicted to it. The little shards of glass give you hundreds of microscopic cuts that dry out your lips, making you need . . . more ChapStick. I seriously looked at the label one time, as if in addition to 44 percent petrolatums, 1.5 percent padimate, 1 percent lanolin, and .5 percent cetyl alcohol it was going to say 4.5 percent broken glass. It doesn’t.” He looks at me, stunned. Not knowing what else to do, I continue. “It’s a cover-up. The Whitehall-Robins Healthcare Company of Madison, New Jersey, which distributes ChapStick, is probably owned by The Altria Group, which is a made-up name for what used to be Philip Morris to make people associate them less with tobacco.” And then, to punctuate the sentence: “They own a lot of stuff.”
I reach for the last piece of our jicama appetizer and shrug. Everything inside me told me I should have canceled this date, and now that I’m on it, I’m furious at myself for not listening. I should have held out for another date with the handsome hugger. But instead this is me living in the not knowing, and I hate it. This is a waste of our time. I know it. He knows it. He’s not saying it (or anything, really), so I’m babbling to fill the silence. But seriously, I’m coming off like an idiot. And a bit of a conspiracy theorist. Not even the fun kind who believes in little green men—the other kind, the kind who writes manifestos and Priority Mails them with explosive devices. I wouldn’t date me and neither should he.
We had decent email chemistry, this new guy and I. But that happens sometimes in online dating. A few zippy emails, some decent back-and-forth, and then in person? Nada. Nothing. Zilch. I should be better at detecting when that’s going to happen by now, but I’m not. It’s still a roll of the dice. That’s why I don’t get excited anymore by a few zippy emails and some decent back-and-forth. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll have
