3. The Text #2
And then I received an email from management. Sandy framed it. She has it on her bathroom wall.
We texted through the afternoon. Throughout my commute, standing on the train with one hand on the rail and the other on my phone, typing responses between stations.
During dinner, which I eat with my phone propped against the salt shaker, reading her replies between bites of rice.
Also in the evening, on the couch in pyjamas, the TV on mute, my phone warm in my hand.
The conversation shifts registers as the hours pass. From silly to specific, the way conversations do when the dark comes in and the day's performance drops away.
You know what I realized? she texts.
What?
You could have just left me at the airport.
I mean you were good company.
So we’re square, then. Mask for soup.
Excuse me? We were never even. You broke my mask and I fed you soup. That's me winning.
You're probably right.
I know I'm right. I post detailed technical analyses of drumming technique. I'm right about everything.
That's not how expertise works.
You don't know how my expertise works. You haven't asked.
Tell me then.
I pause. This is where I'm supposed to make a joke, or change the subject. This is where I keep things light.
I started a fan account because I needed to believe I was capable of caring about something that mattered. I needed proof that the attention I pay to things had value. That if I could see what Riley Puth was doing with her hands, I could be someone worth knowing.
You are worth knowing.
You don't know me.
I know enough. I know you feed sick strangers. I know you organize your books by colour. I know you can write about drumming technique in a way that makes people stop and listen. I know you care about things.
I read the message a few more times.
Why are you being kind to me?
Because you were nice to me first. And you didn't have to be.
By eleven I’ve drifted to the kitchen, phone propped against the salt shaker while I wash the one pan I own, doing the thing where you pretend you aren’t waiting for someone to text back. I rinse the same pan twice.
Me: Okay, your turn. Tell me about the gig.
The dots appear. Vanish. Appear again. I dry my hands like it’s a formal occasion.
And then it isn’t a text. The bubble comes through the wrong colour and the wrong shape, a little waveform sitting inside it, and I gasp out loud at the sight of a voice message.
Her voice fills the room, lower than I expect and rough at the edges from a long day.
“Okay, so, the folk-pop band—they were terrified at soundcheck, all of them looking at me like I was going to grade them—” and she keeps going, forty seconds about the bass finally locking into the kick drum halfway through the second song.
I play it twice. The second time I close my eyes and don’t do a single other thing.
At 11:45, she sends: What did you eat for dinner?
Beef and brocolli stirfry. I overcooked the garlic but it was still good.
That brings out the flavour.
It was black, though.
Okay, you burnt it.
It was still delicious.
You're defending your own burnt garlic. I respect the commitment.
At 12:17 AM I open the group chat instead of going to sleep. Ravita and Marnie are still at it.
Marnie: Rhonda, the Belladonna’s bassist, has the vibe, and her tone. That is ALL I want to say and then I’ll stop.
Ravita: We are loyal in this chat, Marnie. Loyal.
Marnie: Lena. You have the best ears of any of us. Settle it. Is she good or is she GOOD.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I know exactly how good she is. I know she plays with her eyes half shut and texts back before I’ve finished a sentence and thinks pretzels are a moral failing. I could write four hundred words with sources.
Ravita: Did you forget that she’s the one that destroyed the limited edition mask?
Me: It's okay, I’m over it. The shop sent me a new one. She’s okay I guess.
Marnie: Just OKAY?? I’m logging off.
I put the phone face down before I say something with my whole chest.
I type a Riley gif to show my solidarity with Ravita. I close the app.
On the nightstand, my phone sits dark and warm with Rhonda's contact open underneath the group chat. I lie in my bed in my studio apartment with the streetlight making patterns on the ceiling and the lingering smell of the stirfry I had for dinner.
I think about a voice note at eleven PM and the sound of her breath between thoughts. I think about asking what she ate for dinner.
The thinking doesn't stop for a long time.
In the morning, I wake up to:
Good morning. That's not a thing we've established yet but I'm establishing it now. You get a morning text.
I text back: Good morning. I like this rule.
Good. I'm making more rules. Rule two: you answer when I text. Even if you're busy. Even if it's work. I'm now your priority.
I think you’re a tyrant.
I learned it from you. I know your group chat doesn't accept partial loyalty.
Fine. I accept your tyranny.
Good. Rule three: I get to know about the things that matter to you.
This is a lot of rules.
We've only just started.
I read the last text twice, then a third time.
I’m lying in bed on a plain Tuesday, late for a job I don’t love, and the only thing I want to do is answer her.
Me: Fine. Yes. All of it. You tyrant.
I hit send, and I get up, and the whole grey commute I’m smiling like someone keeping a very good secret.