Comedic Timing

Chapter I

I

Armed with a bottle of red wine, I approach a stranger’s home seeking a clean slate. No one at this party knows me. No one has an opinion on my breakup, barely a month old. No one needs to choose sides. I left Chicago, and I live in New York now—even if it’s only been two days.

I arrive at a brownstone in Bed-Stuy. I try the buzzer and wait for five minutes, chilly in the cool air of a September evening. A breeze brushes against me, raising the hairs on my exposed limbs. I should have worn layers. I double-check my hair with my phone camera before calling someone named Christian, who I’d been put in touch with via text. He appears and prances down the steps, his hair even blonder than in his photos on social media. He greets me with a bear hug.

“Naina,” he says into my shoulder, as if we’re childhood friends who haven’t seen each other in years. “So good to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I respond, laughing at his easygoing familiarity, the yeasty smell of beer on his breath. “Jordan says hi. I brought wine.”

“Pshhh, you didn’t have to,” he says, taking the bottle. “Come on inside.”

The distant hum of traffic gives way to the typical sound of some party, somewhere: voices and music, muffled and thumping above the creaky staircase Christian gestures for me to climb.

We approach the apartment door, and he swings it open to reveal a duplex space. Bodies are bathed in moody, atmospheric lighting. My chest pulses with bass. I have never been inside such a spacious, and likely expensive, apartment. There’s an ultramodern, bulbous-looking couch dominating the living room and a hand-knotted rug—the kind my mother would have fawned over—at its center. There are a half dozen people sitting on the ground, holding red wine in an assortment of mismatched glassware.

Compared to most of the other guests, my outfit feels both too formal and yet insufficient: a little black dress. Everyone’s looks are curated with the right mix of outdated (presumably thrifted) pieces—scarves, wide-leg pants, sparkly tops—and newer ones, evidence of an understanding, or at least an acceptance, of the importance of fashion. These are the kind of people who sit on nice furniture while sipping wine out of repurposed jars.

People flow in and out from the balcony. Cigarette smoke floats over their heads and into the apartment. I suddenly feel very small, or perhaps just very young, momentarily regressing to a meekness I haven’t felt since I graduated college three years ago.

Christian smiles at me assuredly.

“I live here with two roommates,” he explains. “Rana and my friend David, who you missed singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to.”

“Oh no,” I respond. “I love singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to strangers.”

“I’ll introduce you when I find him,” Christian says. “Want some cake?”

In the kitchen, Christian and I squeeze past a group of friends wheezing with laughter. Christian was right—the wine was unnecessary. The kitchen counter is chock-full of bottles and empty beer cans indistinguishable from half-drunk ones.

He opens mine anyway. “Sorry, don’t know where all the glasses are,” he says, rifling through cabinets. From the counter, I pick up a red Solo cup with the name “Margot” written on it in black Sharpie. “Don’t worry, Margot left me hers,” I say. Christian snorts, grabbing the cup to rinse it before serving me a generous pour.

“Your apartment is very cool,” I say.

“Thanks,” he says. “It’s changed a lot. We’ve been living here for seven years, almost.”

“Whoa,” I respond. “That’s commitment.”

“In one area of my life,” he says, shrugging.

Christian digs a vape out from his pocket—hot pink, like some kind of toy—and offers me a hit. I take it and inhale, even though I don’t really vape, and I know it’s terrible for you.

“Trying to quit,” he says, as if reading my mind.

“Remind me how you know Jordan?” I ask, referring to my best friend who introduced us and promised that we’d get along.

“I met him at a mutual friend’s comedy show. I hooked up with said mutual friend,” Christian adds with a drop of pride, as if announcing he’d won an award. “And I debriefed with him. I didn’t know who else to talk to about it. Been pals ever since.”

“That’s sweet. I love my morning-after debriefs with Jordan,” I respond, hoping to conceal the very real sadness I feel from missing my friend. Our postmortems would feel different now with eight hundred miles between us.

“How do you know Jordan?”

“College,” I reply.

“Are you in comedy, too?”

“No. I could never,” I reply. I don’t mean for this to come off as derogatory, so I add, “But I respect it. And most of my friends are comedians.”

Christian squints cynically at my comment and continues: “Has anyone ever told you that you shouldn’t be friends with comedians?” He laughs, grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge. He digs a set of keys from his pocket, looking down to find what he needs, and pops the cap swiftly.

“Mostly that I shouldn’t date them,” I say. “But I really do laugh more because of Jordan. I’m a writer, to answer your next question.”

“That’s cool. Is that what you do for money?” He sips his beer as if testing it, then tilts the bottle back for more.

I try not to look crestfallen at this involuntary reminder of my reality. I clear my throat. “For money I work in marketing.”

“Ah.” Christian nods.

“One day, you know, I hope to write for money.”

“Totally. So, what do you write?”

I gulp my wine. I haven’t had to talk about this yet in this new city. I don’t know how it will feel. “Mostly satirical essays. Commentary on internet culture.” I turn the question back to him. “So what do you do for money?”

“I work as a software engineer,” he says, grimacing. “But I tell people I’m a comedian because that’s what I am. I used to be in an improv group in college. That’s how I met my roommates.” He tilts the bottle back again, filling his cheeks with the liquid before swallowing.

“What do they do?”

“David’s a filmmaker,” Christian explains. “Well, I mean, for money, he’s a video editor. My other roommate, Rana, is a social worker.”

A woman enters the kitchen and places her hand on the back of Christian’s neck. “Speak of the devil,” Christian says. Without addressing me, Rana asks for his vape, securing it before swiftly exiting the room.

“Please know that outside of this context, I’m not inhaling from an adult pacifier every five minutes,” Christian says. “I just really wanted it for the party.”

“What’s going on there?” I ask Christian, gesturing toward the strange, flirtatious dynamic between him and his roommate.

“Oh no. Rana has a boyfriend,” he says. “She’s just really affectionate when she’s drunk. And on Molly. She’s on Molly.”

“Ah.”

“We’ve hooked up before, but no—just friends. And roommates.”

“Oh, the old lovers-to-friends-to-roommates pipeline,” I say.

“What about you? You single?”

I steady myself to respond neutrally. “I just broke up with my girlfriend. Incidentally, she’s also a software engineer.”

“How boring,” he says, grinning and nudging me with his elbow. We already have an in-joke.

“But I applied for a job here, just to see if I’d get it. I did, so I moved. I just wanted a fresh start. I’ve been here for a few days now.”

“Well, are you okay? Since the breakup?”

“Not really. But I will be soon, don’t worry.”

“Well, yeah. I can tell you’re the dumper, not the dumpee.” He gulps more beer and swallows a burp.

I consider clarifying that even though I did the breaking up, I don’t feel like I came out on top. All my and Sofia’s mutual friends are checking in on her, while I have been turned into the villain. I only have Jordan to confide in. Sofia is clearly the more sympathetic person in this situation. Defending myself would do nothing to change that.

I tell Christian to go play host—it’s not his responsibility to entertain me—and after my third and decidedly last cup of wine, I run into the Margot who I suspect belongs to the cup I commandeered. She drunkenly introduces herself by pointing at it with her mouth open. “You’re a Margot?” she asks, shouting over the music, pushing a wisp of blond hair away from her face.

“Whoa. Freaky,” I say. “We look alike, too.”

She blinks, then bursts into laughter.

“No, not a Margot. I’m Naina,” I say. “I stole your cup.”

“I thought you were for real!” she exclaims. “I’m pathologically gullible.”

We find ourselves on the balcony with Margot’s friend, who sports a mullet, discussing dating deal-breakers: Mullet says he could never date someone who can’t handle spicy food. Margot tells him to get his priorities straight. Christian joins, passing a joint, and when it makes its way to me, I take a baby hit.

“Want to come upstairs?” Christian asks me, his head cocked to the side. Margot raises her eyebrows and looks away, as if to pretend she can’t hear us. “The drug room,” Mullet states ominously, his voice dropping an octave. I ask if they’re joining. Margot shakes her head, evading eye contact with Christian.

Mullet waves goodbye, like a princess. “’Twas a pleasure,” he sings.

“Margot’s a stand-up comic, but she’s not that funny,” Christian whispers to me as we climb the stairs.

I roll my eyes. “You sound jealous,” I say, poking him. “Comedians are so competitive. What’s the story there?”

“Margot is an old friend. It’s not my business to share, but Margot and David—my other roommate?—were together for two years. We were all friends, then they started dating, and it got messy.”

“This is why I don’t get dating apps,” I say. “Why download them to meet up with a stranger when you can just corrupt the dynamics of your friend group?”

When we make it to the upstairs room, I’m stoned, and my body feels the tug of the queen-size bed. I climb atop it with a few strangers.

“How long were you together?” Christian asks, squeezing himself in next to me. “You and your girlfriend?”

“We met when I was nineteen,” I say. “She’s five years older.”

“How many people have you dated?”

“That was my only relationship ever.”

“Wow,” Christian says, weirdly in awe.

He looks at a text message on his phone. I wonder if I’m boring him. “Be right back, duty calls,” he says. When he leaves, I turn my attention to a stack of books sitting on top of a patched-up fireplace, a mix of self-help and American classics. Next to me, a woman snorts a line of something off a small tray. We make eye contact as she gently rubs her nose.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hi. Oh, I like your eyeshadow. Blue. Nice.” Awkward.

She dabs at her nostrils with her ring finger. “Thanks, girl. Want some?”

“Coke?” I ask. She nods.

“Oh,” I respond, weirdly embarrassed. I am tempted to snort a line despite never having snorted anything. I am suspicious of my urge to let loose, wondering if it is a good or bad thing. I shake my head, forcing myself not to look away as her blotting turns to vehement wiping.

The door swings open with sitcom flair, drawing everyone’s attention. A tall man steps in, and they all slowly break into “Happy Birthday.” “It ended two hours ago,” he replies as he gestures for calm, his arms moving in gentle, measured arcs. “I’m here to use my bathroom, don’t mind me.” David, Christian’s roommate. He smiles at everyone with a quiet magnetism, the kind that makes a person instantly likable without effort. My eyes scan him, catching on the thick hair that curls around his ears, his sharp jaw, the strain of his shoulders against the cotton of his shirt. I assume he’s used to being the most attractive person in the room by default.

“Want some?” the cocaine girl asks him. He grimaces, revealing a few crooked bottom teeth. “Did you test that?” he asks. She shrugs.

“Don’t shrug at me!” David teases. “I’m not judging you. Just be safe. We have test strips in the kitchen drawer downstairs, for future reference.”

“So you don’t want any?” she asks him. David shakes his head.

“Aw come on. You used to be fun,” she replies.

“Are you peer pressuring me?” he jokes. She shrugs again. I can’t tell if they’re flirting, but something about their interaction makes me uncomfortable enough to want to interrupt.

“He’s right,” I chime in. “Why not just test it?”

David’s eyes find mine, and I meet his gaze, noticing a boyish sincerity etched in his expression. He suddenly turns self-conscious, brushing something off his shirt, white and crisp like he ironed it. His bicep flexes subtly.

“See?” he says, gesturing to me with his thumb. “You hear her?” The woman rolls her eyes at us and leaves the room, either to get the strips or to escape the conversation.

David turns to me, smiling and squinting. His eyes crinkle mischievously. “Can you believe that?” he asks. “So cavalier.”

“I know, right?” I reply, laughing.

“I haven’t seen you before, have I?” he asks, his gaze shifting over me.

“No, you haven’t,” I reply. “Unless you’re mistaking me for some other brown woman!” I poke him in his shoulder playfully, but it lands flat. What made me say that?

He pulls his chin in. “Why would I do that? I’m brown.”

“I see that. What kind of brown are you?” I ask, crossing my arms. Oh, good, I am making it worse.

He lets out a single laugh, ha . “That’s pretty racist, you know.”

I fake a scoff, relieved to have him playing along. “Not racist.”

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Naina,” I say as I hold out my hand. “Thanks for having me. Christian invited me.”

He takes my hand, and we exchange what is not so much of a handshake as a brief handhold. It’s less a greeting and more an excuse to touch the other person. We might both be guilty of making it that way. I feel his calluses press against my palm. He finally releases his grip.

“I’m David.”

“Happy birthday,” I tell him. My brain is on a lag, I realize. My wrist is still extended in his direction. I force my hand down, hoping my mind will catch up. “How old are we?”

“Thirty-two.”

“You don’t look a day over twenty-seven,” I reply. David snorts.

“Thanks. Christian didn’t mention he was seeing anyone,” he says.

“Um, no, we’re not—I just got out of a breakup. And then I moved here. From Chicago.” I’ve repeated a variation of this explanation so many times tonight. This time it comes out in a string of breathless words. Why am I desperate to let him know I am single and definitely not dating Christian?

“So, you ran away,” he says, curling his lip teasingly. In a sense, he’s correct, but I won’t tell him that.

“Actually, I got a job here.”

“Congrats. That’s great news. Except maybe not so much for your ex-boyfriend.”

“Ex-girlfriend.”

David pulls his chin in again, this time out of surprise. “Huh.”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” he responds with a shrug. I’m confused, not sure what to make of this statement. He wouldn’t have guessed what? He looks me up and down quickly, as if trying to solve something. I turn self-conscious, feeling trapped in the fucking LBD. The dress accentuates my femmeness, my D-cup breasts, the curve of my waist that my mother deemed part of my “lovely figure.” It suddenly feels too short, this dress that previously sat untouched at the back of my closet for years. Tonight, however, it had made its way into a first impression by virtue of being one of the least rumpled things to emerge from my moving boxes.

To this man, me being queer is a surprise because of the way I look. Blood rushes to my face, igniting a silent fury.

His face turns concerned. “What?”

“Do you usually just go around making assumptions about people’s sexuality?” I ask tersely.

The energy between us twists. He covers his face. His nails are short, as if bitten.

“I’m... very sorry. That’s not what I—that was stupid,” he says through nervous laughter. “I didn’t mean it that way; I wasn’t thinking.”

I blink at him, wondering what he could have meant other than You don’t look queer to me.

I cross my arms, and he cups my elbows, his face softening as mine hardens. “Can we start over?” he asks, his voice quieter. “But I really need to pee, so let me do that first. Don’t go anywhere.”

He disappears into the bathroom. The coke girl returns, test strips in hand, waving them at me as if to say See?! I want to wait for David, at least to hear his version of “starting over,” but wearing this outfit, meeting these people, and being out in this world has turned from novel to unbearable. I crave the comfort of being alone, with myself: of peeling the dress off my body, scrubbing the city off my face, and crawling under my duvet, naked.

I walk downstairs and gently push myself through a group of people dancing to a Mischief song I loved in high school. I hold my breath against a wicked mix of stale cigarettes and strong perfume. I pause to look for Christian, to say goodbye, but I give up after one scan of the crowd.

Determined to escape, I shove open the apartment door and jog down the stairs of the building, landing on the balls of my feet. I step into the cool air of the night, mood lighting now swapped for the dim fluorescence of streetlamps.

I fidget with the hem of my dress, as if stretching it down will somehow make it grow longer. In all my time living in Chicago, I never did drugs, despite Jordan’s penchant for microdosing shrooms at birthday parties. I rarely drank more than I could handle. But I also wasn’t comfortable meeting new people, and I didn’t always speak my mind. Substances aside—my Irish exit aside—I had fun tonight. I surprised myself.

I could see my life in New York as an opportunity to do something I’d never done before: It was an opportunity to grow. As I wait for a car to take me home, I give myself permission to try.