Comedic Timing

Chapter III

III

“Lemme just say—that bitch is crazy.”

My new coworker Chloe is going off about our boss, Alice, as she and I sit together at a wine bar in Manhattan to celebrate my first full week. Our knees knock against the marble surface while we drink and eat what we can before happy hour ends and the menu prices enter insurmountable territory. We’ve demolished two dozen oysters and two glasses of wine in forty-five minutes, just in time for more people to crowd in, unbutton their collars, and form small heaps of outerwear in the corners of the booths.

I’ve been waiting for Chloe’s read on our manager and our office, a loft complete with wood floors, exposed pipes, brick walls, and expensive potted plants. It’s all too predictable. Chloe’s desk is right next to mine, but the space is almost library quiet. Talking outside of meetings is frowned upon, and headphones are assumed.

“Alice doesn’t... smile,” I say. “I know women don’t have to smile but—”

“Oh please. You think I could get far in life without smiling?” Chloe flips her long braids over her bronze shoulders. She flashes me a gorgeous, toothy grin. She was out sick my first day, so I was left searching her desk to get a sense of her. When I took in the glitter gel pens, the stack of yellow notepads, the novel tucked away in the corner, and the framed photo of a cockapoo, I assumed her to be more wholesome than she seems now. “Getting through life with RBF is a privilege ,” Chloe says, tilting her head back to swallow the last few drops of her wine. A middle-aged man in a suit passes by and turns to look at her. She’s oblivious, or perhaps she’s used to it.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” I reply. She holds up her hand for a high five.

“Met anyone cute lately? You on the apps?” She pulls out a tube of gloss from her purse, swiping it across her lips, which already seem well glossed to me.

I’ve been dreading this conversation. Everyone is on the apps.I hate the idea of creating a profile. It feels fundamentally inauthentic, like bowls of plastic fruit. But I’m not sure how to date after being in a relationship for so long. Do people even meet in person anymore? I feel inexperienced even wondering.

I sigh. “I’ve never used a dating app.I was with my ex for five years.”

“How old are you again?” Chloe asks, not quite hiding her shock.

“Twenty-five.”

“Wow, that’s half of your twenties.” I know she isn’t trying to make me feel bad, but I feel somehow plagued by my romantic history.

“Have you ever had a long-term relationship?” I ask her.

“Yes. Also for half of my twenties, but the latter half. So, I get it,” she says. “But you can look forward to your thirties. Trust me.” She points at herself. “Thirty-one.”

“People always say that to me. That and, You should get on the apps! ”

Chloe nods eagerly. “Well, you should get on the apps. Unless you’re not ready. Or even better if you’re not. Your first slut phase has to be wild anyway. A little reckless.”

“ First slut phase?” I try to mask the disbelief in my voice. It was not clear to me that people could have multiple slut phases. It seems indulgent. As far as I see it, either you have a lot of sex, date a bunch of people in a hobby-like fashion, or you don’t. And if you don’t—if you are not that person—you could partake in one single, experimental slut phase. Test the waters of your personhood.

“Well, if you choose to reenter your slut era at any point, you’ll do so as a wise woman. You’ll know how to enjoy yourself, but with discernment.”

I’m amused by how her statement contradicts human behavior—people tend to make the same mistakes repeatedly, don’t they?—but also by how much she reminds me of Jordan: bright energy, animated expressions, that optimistic way of seeing the world.

“Do you have friends here? Or is this, like, new city, new you?” Chloe checks the clock and catches the bartender’s eye.

I tell Chloe about Christian, about the party, and, because I can’t help myself, about David, still enthralled by him for reasons I can’t quite grasp. Chloe doesn’t understand why David upset me. The more questions she asks (“Was he negging you?” “No, not exactly”; “He wasn’t being derogatory, right?” “Right, but he assumed I was straight, then was unashamedly surprised”), the more confused I grow about my reaction. The combination of the wine and Chloe’s relentless inquisition relaxes my grudge. Plus, I was wearing an LBD with heels to a house party, like a freshman at NYU.

I conclude my story with a dramatic reading of his message, and I wonder, out loud, if there is a chance for him to recover from offending me.

She claps her hands once, like she’s settled it. “You get a ticket for Christian’s show, but don’t tell him,” she says. “And take me along. I live for the tea.”

I laugh and move my hand to my face to cover my grin. Chloe doesn’t know me well, but I think she can tell she’s convinced me.

“Do you think he’s cute?” she asks me. I put on my best thinking face despite already knowing the answer: Yes. I nod at Chloe, scrunching my nose, and she squeezes my shoulders, beaming.

“What a shock it’s going to be when he sees you,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.

We pay and practically race to the subway. Chloe somehow manages to stand on the train without holding anything for support. She balances as if she’s snowboarding. I try to mirror her, but I fall against a sweaty stranger in workout gear. “Excuse me,” he says, glaring. I apologize through our stifled laughter.

My stomach hasn’t stopped gurgling by the time we arrive at the venue, which, aesthetically, is a mix between a theater and a nightclub. Strobe lights glide through the darkness while a DJ presides over preshow music. I am so used to the rotation of places where my friends performed in Chicago—tightly packed venues where the audience mostly stood, small stages holding infinite talent, plastic cups of beer.

The crowd here seems more interested in getting drinks than finding a seat. But I am too distracted to do either. I inhale sharply, and my intake of breath catches Chloe’s attention.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I think I might have social anxiety,” I admit. “I get nervous before parties and large gatherings.” Large gatherings , like my therapist used to say. Chloe nods empathically and says, “Go get us seats. I’ll get us some water.”

I choose two chairs in the back and pretend to be overly interested in my phone. I’m reading emails I’ve already opened when David approaches me.

“Hey, Naina.” I feel the slight touch of his hand on the nape of my neck and turn to look up. His palm rests on the back of my chair while he gazes down at me, grinning apprehensively.

“Hi, David.” I give him a tight-lipped smile, unsure of how I should be responding. There is a part of me that is eager to flirt with him again, but that feels like self-betrayal based on how offended I am. Or was.

“I wasn’t expecting you.” He laughs. “But it’s a nice surprise.” He beams at me earnestly, and I feel a pang of guilt. I should be kind, magnanimous, unperturbed by our previous conversation.

“How are you?” he asks.

“I’m better after going out for drinks with my coworker today. Our boss is fond of emotional torture, I think.”

“What happened?”

“Long story, but I’ve only had the job for a week,” I say. “So, it’s only going to get worse, right?”

He clicks his tongue, taking a seat. He tugs at the denim of his jeans near the knee. “As someone who’s had a slew of bad bosses: Yes, it’ll probably get worse. Not just them, but your tolerance level.”

I shake my head.

“But hopefully I can still get the long version,” he says. I think he’s flirting? I detect the signs: the way he’s leaning into me, shoulders pointing down and curving around me like a barrier, making me feel shielded and precious.

I know I don’t mind it, but I’m not sure I’m ready to acknowledge I like it.

“You’re a video editor, right?” I ask.

He nods. “Nothing interesting,” he states. “Soulless shit. Commercials.”

Chloe appears to my left, drinks in hand. I take a cup of water from her, and she offers a handshake to David. “Hi, I’m Chloe, Naina’s coworker.” I look at his hand, noticing a silver ring on his pointer finger I hadn’t seen before. I wonder if Chloe can feel his calluses.

“David.”

“Oh, I know.” She flashes me a smile, and I’m horrified.

“Heard you have a mean boss,” he says.

“That’s one way to put it,” Chloe replies.

The houselights dim. “I want to hear all about it,” David whispers, his breath warm on my ear. “Your job. After the show. If you’ll stick around.”

“Maybe,” I whisper and press my lips together to stop myself from smiling.

Christian’s humor is the observational kind. He is deeply opinionated, head filled to the brim with hot takes, which, for a white man, are surprisingly uncontroversial. The root of his comedy: ridiculousness.

After the show, Chloe and I run into him outside the building, where he is being hugged by his friends. Once again, he is delighted to see me. Chloe is amused by his level of extroversion, widening her eyes at me.

“And who’s this?” Christian says, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and looking at Chloe, eyes sparkling. Chloe introduces herself, and in a matter of seconds, he invites us to join him at a bar down the block along with the rest of his crew. We start walking, about ten of us. David magically appears. I wait behind the rest of the group for him to catch up, grateful that Chloe’s focus has shifted to Christian.

“What did you think?” he asks me. “Of Christian’s performance.”

We allow ourselves to lag behind the rest of the group. My shoulder bumps gently against his ribcage.

“He’s funny,” I say.

“Are you surprised?”

“No, I mean—he sees the world through a very funny lens. It’s kind of compelling,” I say.

David groans, incredulous. “ Christian? Compelling? ”

I stifle laughter, trying to get the explanation out. “When you think about it. Like, only he’d see things in that way. And it’s hilarious. Oh, and so different from his personality. I thought he’d be cheesier.”

“He’s such a cheesy person.” David chuckles, clearly fond of Christian and of talking about him. It’s attractive to me, how much he loves his friend.

“Christian seems like he just likes to have fun,” I add. “He doesn’t seem too concerned with perfection. He likes to have a good time on stage. That’s what matters. He’s free . And that’s what makes him so good.”

“He has a gift,” David says. “And he really cares about it. He nurtures it. I think a lot of talented comedians— artists , in general—get caught up with wanting to be ‘known.’ And they stop being good because of that. Good at being themselves, I mean.”

I consider that sometimes writers get too concerned with pleasing their audience before they write what’s true to themselves. It’s part of the reason I’ve been stuck recently: I have been judging my own voice by other people’s standards.

David continues: “Plus, there’s a level of shine to being young and successful and having clout. A lot of people give up if they don’t reach that point, which is crazy to me because you have the rest of your life! And over time, I don’t know... it’s like a rat race here. Over time people forget about honing their craft. That stops being the point. The point becomes being famous.”

He looks at me, checking to see if I’m still with him. I am, but I don’t say anything. A moment passes between us, warm and translucent.

“Sorry, I just rambled,” he says, turning away and laughing at himself.

I watch his shoulders tense, and I want to ease his discomfort. “Sorry, I was just thinking about what you were saying. I’ve met a lot of comedians— people —in Chicago who are the same way. Clout chase-y. But isn’t securing fame the only way to be a successful comedian? There need to be people who show up at your shows, laugh at your jokes. Like maybe clout is important if you have to pay the bills. But I don’t know, maybe it’s a balance, like everything.”

“You don’t seem like a clout chaser,” he observes.

“I’m not a comedian,” I respond. “My best friend is, though. But I don’t think he’s a clout chaser.”

David shakes his head. “Yeah, but you’re a writer. Writers want clout, too. That’s why so many of them are on Twitter.”

“X.”

“Okay, Elon.”

I chuckle. “How’d you know I’m a writer?” I ask.

“Instagram, obviously,” David responds cheekily, brushing his arm against mine. So he looked through my profile. He is clearly interested in me. To some extent. In some capacity.

We step into a dimly lit bar. I walk over toward Christian and Chloe, who are by the water dispenser, standing oddly close while Chloe fills a tiny paper cup. She’s smiling and saying something to him while he rocks slightly from side to side, hands in pockets. David raises his eyebrows at me, and I mouth an oh boy back as we approach them.

Christian and David engage in mundane roommate exchanges (“Are you going to be home tomorrow? Can you sign for a delivery?”), and Chloe attempts to communicate with me telepathically. She keeps wiggling her eyebrows. It’s a habit of hers, I’m learning.

“What?” I urge. “What’re you trying to say?”

“Cute friends,” she whispers, grinning.

“What? Them? No way. We’re cute friends,” I say, prompting a laugh from Chloe.

“David’s obviously into you,” she says with a self-satisfied smile. “He’s not even hiding it.”

“How can you tell?” I ask, failing to veil my delight at the thought of this man being attracted to me.

“How can he not be?” she says sweetly, but I want something specific. I want to hear what she sees so I can see it too.

“Please,” I say dismissively.

“He knows other people here, but he chose to sit next to you at the show.”

I wave her off, uncomfortable now that I have my answer. “What do you think of Christian?”

She shrugs. “He’s giving me nerdy white boy vibes. In a cute way. Also, he’s so lean , like a tennis player.” I assume this last comment is a good thing.

“I don’t think David is into me,” I counter. “He just feels guilty for his weird comment and is trying to get on my good side. It probably seems like flirting because most men aren’t overly concerned about leaving bad impressions.”

“Impossible. Flirt with him,” she suggests.

I wonder what advice Chloe would have for me if I told her the truth, so I do.

“Wanting men has never come naturally to me,” I confess, somehow managing to say it coolly. “Finding them attractive, yes. Passively. But I think I feel, like, active desire right now. I’ve never felt that for a man before. I’m so thrown off by it. Especially since I was suspicious of him up until yesterday. And especially since that suspicion was borne of him assuming that... I’m attracted to men.”

Chloe nods and gives me a reassuring smile. “It’s okay to be into him. It’s also okay to want someone and to be thrown off by it.” Not necessarily advice, but reassurance. She is kind and warm. She is nonjudgmental. I am grateful for it.

“Let’s take this one.” Christian turns to us, gesturing to an empty booth. A crowd pours into the bar. We sit, anticipating space will be scarce very soon.

Two hours later the music is louder, the bar darker, and our table somehow stickier. The initial group we arrived with thins out, heading off to more Friday night commitments. After a period of shouting over competing sounds—a cluster of friends clinking glasses, early 2000s indie hits with earworm choruses, and at one point, glass breaking—we’re left with no choice but to whisper into each other’s ears: Chloe and Christian, David and me.

He and I sit next to each other, across from Chloe and Christian. The low lights create a haze around us, making David’s features seem softer and more animated. I notice the way his eyes dart around, paying attention to his surroundings, before the intensity of his gaze shifts and he focuses on me.

“When do you write?” David asks me. “Early morning? Late nights?”

“Late nights,” I say. “I have trouble sleeping anyway. But I am struggling to write these days. I’m not feeling super inspired or motivated.”

His breath hitches slightly. His fingers drum on his beer glass with a light, nervous rhythm. It’s impossible to ignore how close he is to me now; I watch his chest rise and fall.

“Writer’s block?” he asks, leaning in toward me.

I am keen to let him know I’ve considered solutions. “I think so. Maybe I need to find a group or something, like a writing group. At some point.”

David takes a deep breath. “I have a thought.”

“What’s that?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound as eager as I feel.

His shoulders tense, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, clasping his hands together to stop the jittery drumming. “Well, first I need to apologize—”

I cut him off, waving my hands. “No, no, no. Don’t apologize. It’s whatever—”

“I need to. Can you let me?”

“Okay, fine. It’ll be more for you than for me.”

He visibly steadies himself. I take in the slight flush of his cheeks, the way his eyes soften as he searches for the right words. He looks down, as if preparing, before bringing his eyes to mine. “That was very weird of me, at the party. I’m sorry for what I said. It was... offensive under the guise of being flirtatious. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. And for being presumptuous.” He relaxes a bit and sips his beer. “I don’t like saying the wrong thing, but sometimes I just do. Anyway, if you’ll forgive me, and if we can start over, I think it would be cool to get together and write. Work on our own stuff, keep each other company, or maybe riff—whatever it is, I’d love to do it.”

I am not good at responding to apologies, in part because I don’t apologize much. Apologies are cards that must be dealt carefully. Like tears. I learned this at thirteen, when my mother died. I know women are primed to ask forgiveness for everything—to say “sorry” when someone runs into them—and to accept any expression of remorse with a perfunctory “no problem.”

I surprise myself when I consider taking David’s seriously.

“I think we’ve already started over, David,” I say, gesturing to the bar, to how close we’re sitting next to each other. He leans even more with a shrug, clearly still eager to earn my forgiveness.

The way his lips curve into a shy smile unravels something in me. I feel a strange mix of relief and anticipation. Relief because we’ve traversed our initial awkwardness, anticipation because we’ve entered entirely new territory.

“You are forgiven,” I say with a nod. “For being presumptuous.” He bows slightly, hands pressed together over his heart, and I laugh at him. I feel the last of my reservations melt away with this silly gesture.

“Now back to the writing conversation,” I say. “I want to work on an essay about the repercussions of internet virality.”

David looks confused. He rests his head on his palm attentively and absentmindedly fingers his hairline. “Say more.”

“Have you heard about that guy who love bombed and then ghosted a bunch of women he met off dating apps?” I ask. I hadn’t told anyone about the essay yet. It existed within the confines of my brain like a precious gem. David shakes his head and rests both of his elbows on the table, pushing his beer toward me and inching even closer, putting his ear near my mouth to hear me better.

“Okay, so two women—influencers—posted videos about their interactions with a man who was quickly affectionate and who later disappeared on them. But then, their followers—in their respective comment sections—figured out it was the same guy—”

“No!” David exclaims, smacking the table. I nod back excitedly.

“That’s not even the best part, though. Once they realized it was the same guy, their stories spread even more thanks to the algorithm, and then more women shared stories of their interactions with the same man. And then other women—his ‘victims’ and people who love sleuthing on the internet—started posting photos of his face and screenshots of his text messages. Of course, it all went crazy viral. One of the funnier things that they posted was this music playlist, which he sent to basically everyone he dated, claiming it was ‘specially made’ for each woman. Now there’s hundreds of videos out there about him. These women managed to unearth his full name and occupation.” I down my beer and slosh it around in my mouth, absorbing the amused look on David’s face. His left brow hitches slightly higher, signaling he is invested.

“Honestly, I can’t get over how the women figured it out,” he says. “That’s kind of awesome. Are comment sections basically discussion boards now?”

“That’s exactly it,” I reply. “Comment sections are like niche community hubs. But also what about the algorithm? Isn’t it kind of crazy that these videos just landed on the right people’s pages?”

“I’m less shocked by that than the playlist thing. I mean, that’s wild.” David chuckles.

I feel a twinge of excitement at our shared interest in the story, almost like this conversation is our own form of foreplay. The skin around his eyes crinkles, and I study the silver peeking through his dark curls, tighter than my own.

“How old are you?” I ask him.

He laughs, surprised. “I just turned thirty-two, remember? Why? How old are you?”

“Twenty-six. Soon.”

“Do you think I’m old?”

“Yes.”

He squints, taking me in with a smirk.

I poke his side with my elbow. “No, you’re not old. But you are older , so I’m not surprised you don’t know much about internet culture.”

“Hey, I know some things.”

“I’m sure you do. I probably have something to learn from you.”

“You have that new-NYC-transplant glow,” he says. “So, I have something I can learn from you, too. Other than all this piping hot internet gossip.”

I feel a rush of warmth, as if his attention is a tangible thing wrapping around me.

“Why’d you move here?” I ask. “Did you have dreams?”

He laughs. “Of course I did. I was an idealist.”

“What did you want?”

He suddenly turns sheepish. “I wanted to write and direct my own movies. I did for a bit—shorts. A few made it into festivals, but it felt like nothing was actually happening. Then I don’t know. I kind of lost that hunger, got comfortable freelancing. Now I work on my friends’ projects sometimes, which is fun, but it’s not the same.”

“So you’re not writing anything?” This lands more harshly than I intend. Embarrassment flickers across his face, and it makes me want to reach out and comfort him. My hand inches closer to his elbow on the table but not near enough to graze it.

He shrugs. “I have ideas, but I haven’t written anything in years. I start but then give up. Oh, don’t look at me like that—my curse won’t rub off on you.”

“I just feel bad.”

“Don’t feel bad for me.”

“I don’t feel bad for you . I feel bad that capitalism takes away our magic.”

He returns to the nervous tapping. The way he flicks his now empty beer glass seems to punctuate the moment, his gestures and words blending into a shared sense of melancholy. I’m drawn to the way he reveals himself.

“I really do think we could riff off one another,” he says more assertively. “I have this idea for a short... I don’t know; it’s all over the place in my head right now. But I could use some company. Some accountability. And discipline... all the things.” He spreads his arms apart, palms face up, what’re you going to do? and laughs.

“I think I could use all of that, too,” I respond, and he gives me a satisfied, goofy thumbs-up.

“I do think the guy’s playlist was kind of amazing,” I blurt. “The love bomber? There was, like, Mazzy Star on there.”

“I’m starting to understand his technique. Reel ’em in with sad girl music,” he says, laughing.

“Yeah. Maybe I would’ve fallen for it, too.”

I reach for my beer glass, just condensation now, to have something to do with my hands. I’ve always considered writing a solitary act. But now, my interest in David is coinciding with my desire to try something new, to feel more secure in my place in the world. To feel like I made the right decision moving to New York.

Sitting so close to him, warming up to each other, feels like something rigid in me is melting, going pliable.

He beams, crooked teeth and all. “Fallen for it? I bet you would have called him on his shit faster than you left my apartment.”