4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Peyton
A community of chimpanzees relaxes in the shade of the outdoor playscape. I watch them from one of the hallway observation windows, as the main viewing room is being used for a meeting. I’m monitoring them to assist the veterinarian team in determining whether dietary changes are needed due to constipation. It’s a side task, but it’s the only assignment I have that involves observing the primates.
My primary assignment is to coordinate the creation of a large grant proposal. It’s important work and provides excellent visibility within the organization, but grant writing isn’t why anyone gets into primatology. It’s administrative work that provides little opportunity to shine, so I’m hoping my side task will be where I impress Dr. Wahl and his team. Somehow, I must elevate my study of primate constipation.
Alpha male, Sty, is crouched in a shaded corner of the playscape, while the rest groom one another. Sty bats at something circling around his head, likely a fly, then returns to his immobile crouch. My focus snaps back to the hallway when Harris stops beside me at the observation window. He raps his fingers in a chaotic pattern on the back of a clipboard. He balances the clipboard on his hand as though he’s carrying a tray full of imaginary drinks and sweeps it in front of me. Given his weird body language, I can’t help but glance at the top sheet. It’s a table of primate subjects, tests, and responses.
“I gathered some pretty interesting findings today,” he says. If he wasn’t being obvious enough, he waves the clipboard in front of my face. “Results coming out of the study are truly fascinating.”
Before I’m able to ask for specifics, he asks, “Why are you out here? Shouldn’t you be busy typing away? Let me know if you’ve hit a wall on working on the grant.”
“I’ve got it covered. Everything’s going well with the proposal. But with my side project, I do have to observe the group.”
“Oh that. Right.”
I give him side-eye to stop him from delivering an add-on poop pun.
“Don’t spend too much time on it, otherwise you might find yourself too backed up to work on that grant.”
Side-eye failed. “I’ll have you know my side project hasn’t turned out to be such a turd after all.”
“Good one.”
“It’s actually been kind of interesting.” I point to the chimpanzee alone on the opposite side of the yard. “Since Sty has been disappearing for his extended bowel movements, Ruby has been sneaking around with Sam.”
“Better than the Real Housewives .”
“All the drama without the plastic surgery.”
“I’m glad they gave you a little something to work on. It’s not exactly research, but at least it’s something.”
On the surface, his comment could seem like a note of camaraderie, but it’s more likely that he’s one-upping me. This is his daily dig to make himself seem superior. I’d wager his least preferred internship outcome would be me being hired while he is not. My bottom rank would be neither of us getting a job. If he stays and I don’t, then at least there’s one less applicant in the pool and once I landed a permanent spot, we’d have a connection, strengthening the community of our graduating year.
“I’m so glad my project involves working with actual primates.” He points at his papers. “Which reminds me, I’m serious about helping on the grant if you can’t handle it. Gotta make sure the team has the money to hire me.”
“That’s my top concern,” I deadpan, not letting the subtext that somehow he’s more capable of working on the grant irritate me. “I met with Dr. Wahl yesterday and he’s pleased with the first draft. I have everything under control.”
“Good stuff.” Harris looks out into the yard and points to Sty. “The big guy does look a bit off, doesn’t he?”
And there it is, a natural opening for me to show off my work. Once Harris sees my data, he’ll see the potential of my work and the poop put-downs will stop. I try to roll my shoulders back, but they stay tight. Then I open my laptop. “I’ve actually charted his bowel movements to the number of hours he’s spending alone.”
Harris raises his eyebrows. I’ve impressed him. Just wait until he sees my pivot tables and regression analysis. I open my spreadsheet. “I also set several variables for social interactions so that I can create charts on their behavior. I’m hoping some trends will emerge.”
He takes the laptop from me. His eyes widen as he scrolls through the charts, a sure sign that he’s impressed. “Wow. This must have taken a lot of time.”
“Some. I observe them when I need a mental break and then some in the mornings and evenings.”
“Huh.” He closes my laptop and studies the top of it. “And how is your dating life?”
“Pardon?” I don’t like the tone of that question.
“Nothing.” He shrugs as though it were an appropriate thing to ask. “But are you bringing anyone to the fundraiser tonight?” he asks, continuing the same tone of fake concern.
“That’s none of your business.” I thrust out my hand for my laptop. It takes all of my willpower not to snatch it from him. As a fellow data nerd, I’d thought he’d geek out on my numbers. Clearly, this was a mistake in judgment, but still I wouldn’t have ever guessed he’d be so rude and personal about his one-upmanship.
“I’m bringing my new girlfriend. It looks better if you bring someone.” He taps the lid of my laptop, then hands it to me. “It’s good to have a life outside of here. You know, so you don’t become too obsessed, develop any weird…tendencies.”
The condescension dripping from his words leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I hug my computer close to me and hide it behind my notebook. “Do you care to clarify the meaning behind what you said?”
“My girlfriend?” His brow crinkles with a brief flash of confusion. He taps away at his clipboard. It’s a repeat of the chaotic beat from when he joined me, and it makes me wish he had a sense of rhythm. “Haven’t I mentioned my girlfriend? She’s a school nurse. Loves kids. That’s what I’m looking for, a woman who prioritizes her family.”
Now he’s trimming his unprofessionalism with a bouquet of misogyny. Wonderful.
“Good for her. Why would I care?”
He leans forward and looks pointedly at my closed laptop. “Seriously, get on some dating apps.”
As he continues along the hall, I stand there with my jaw wide open. What a patronizing, nosey, overly opinionated jerk! And new girlfriend, my ass. I know they met less than a week ago. Am I supposed to be impressed that he went on one date and now has a girlfriend ? I wouldn’t even consider using the term STIMP for a guy I knew all of a week, and STIMP comes with pretty low expectations.
I turn back to the window. A huff of my breath condenses on the glass in front of me.
And another thing—my data is interesting and has the potential to provide further understanding on primate behavior. I’ve heard of no studies on the impact of bowel movements on social behavior. He’s the one with the problem! He has to go on so many dates with his stupid apps because of his male chauvinistic viewpoints. He can shove his apps up his butt and see how that impacts his regularity. Maybe then he won’t be feeling so social.
I’m going to blow up my side project like Harris blows up a toilet. Take that, Harris. In fact, I am going to have my own app. I’m going to have an app for my project. Then he won’t think his dating apps are so cool anymore.
Wait—I really do need an app! If I want to shine, I need to go high tech all the way.
Or why settle with a lowly app? I need artificial intelligence. My pivot chart is too simple for such a complex issue. We have thousands of hours of video showing primate interactions. If I teach the AI what to look for, then the AI can help me determine the impact of constipation on antisocial and prosocial behavior. I’m going to mine this poop for the gold that it is, and use the top technology to get to the bottom of the issue. Ha, Harris. You’re not the only one who can do potty humor.
I rush back to my micro-office. Luckily Harris is out. I rack my brain to remember any developers I may know. With my biology undergraduate degree, I know plenty of people who went on to study medicine, but my contacts for software development are pretty slim, possibly even zero. I’m sure I must be forgetting about someone from my undergrad dorm years. Ashima was always better at making contacts and remembering details about people. She’ll probably remember someone.
Then I have the unfortunate realization that Max is a developer. He could have contacts who work with machine learning. I’m hesitant to call him since I’m still shell-shocked from our first meeting.
I write some pros to calling Max—I have his number from Ashima’s text, he was civil with me by the end of the evening, I’m exceedingly excited about my idea, and he is the only person I can think of at the moment. The last pro cinches it for me and I abandon the cons list.
I pull up the group text Ashima sent out and save Max’s number into my contacts. This is happening. He’s now taking up digital space on one of my most prized possessions. When I open the contact card, I am greeted with Max’s smiling face from a time where he brushed his hair and trimmed his beard. Given the current Max looks like he stepped out of a display for prehistoric humans, I’m surprised he looks so good in the photo. It’s amazing what basic grooming and not snarling does for one.
I press the call button. The phone rings. And rings. Should I leave a voicemail? No, I’ll just send a text asking him to call me. Or maybe this is a sign to abort the mission.
“Hello?”
Max’s answering catches me off guard. I pause for a moment. “Oh, hi Max, this is Peyton…um, Ashima’s friend.”
“Right. I remember.”
I take a deep breath. “This is probably a stretch because you probably don’t work with this stuff, but I thought since you’re a developer you might be able to give me some thoughts on something I was considering for work or you may have some connections.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“I’ve been given this assignment…” How to explain this? I cannot tell Max about my poop pivot table. Even Harris didn’t geek out over it. Max is sure to ridicule me. “I had this idea…”
I curse under my breath. I need to regroup and figure out how to best present this to him. “Sorry, I’m just trying to figure out how to best explain this.”
“If it’s that complicated, we could grab a beer after work today.”
“That actually sounds like a good idea.” Somehow, his free calendar alone feels like validation that my idea is a worthy pursuit. “I could be in Midtown by six.”
“Works for me.”
“No, wait, I forgot there’s this work fundraiser event I’m going to tonight, which is a shame.” I slump back in my chair, physically defeated by this hurdle. “That really sucks. I have this idea and I’m dying to figure out what to do.”
“Fundraiser, huh? I guess I could go with you and we could talk.”
“Yes, that could work! Couldn’t it?” I halt once my words fully register.
I must analyze this. I dash off P and C headings for pros and cons.
P - This meeting could change the trajectory of my research (or lack of doing research).
C - Max could offend my colleagues and cause a downward trajectory of my career.
P - If Harris is right, having Max will raise my group ranking by making me appear to be mated.
“Still there?” Max asks.
Two Ps to one C.
“The fundraiser would be as good of a place as any to chat,” I say. “And bringing you has some efficiencies.”
“Open bar?”
“I would assume so, but since I’m buying your drinks, it doesn’t matter.”
“Okay. Good appetizers or crappy ones? I don’t want to eat broccoli dipped in ranch, so will there be good stuff like bacon-wrapped shrimp? Or pigs-in-a-blanket? Or really anything that includes meat from a pig?”
My boss and I are both vegetarian, or flexitarian to be exact. As are quite a few other team members, so the menu is likely to include a veggie platter with broccoli and ranch dip. I don’t think this is that fancy of an event, so there probably won’t be bacon-wrapped shrimp, and not a Super Bowl party, so probably also no pigs-in-a-blanket, but Max won’t know that until he’s already there.
“Well, it can’t be a party if there isn’t bacon-wrapped something, right?” He’s quiet, and I hope it’s because he’s salivating. “And I’ll drive, so you can drink and eat as much as you want.”
This is actually a good plan. If any coworkers come around, I will stuff Max’s mouth so he can’t say anything to embarrass me, and if that doesn’t work, I can drive him home immediately.
“And there’s not some other angle here?” Max says.
“Not sure what you mean, but you’re the one that suggested tagging along.”
“So we’re going as friends?”
“Of course. What else is there?” I ask. “Oh, do you mean we’re really more like acquaintances versus actual friends? If anyone asks, I don’t care if you say friend or acquaintance.” Though, honestly, I’m hoping no one will ask and instead assume I brought a date, in case there’s any validity to Harris’s point that it’s best to bring someone. “If the topic of our relationship comes up, perhaps we should be ready with an acronym. Technically, you are the brother of my friend’s boyfriend, not really my friend. Should we say you’re my BFB?”
“Eh, you need something better than that. BFB is way too close to BFF. People would get confused, which defeats the whole point.” He munches on something crunchy. Probably chips. I think he’s chewing with his mouth open. “But we’ve had drinks and now we’re talking on the phone. I think we can use the word friend.”
“Fine, friend it is.”
“Last question, friend; this all seems too convenient. Are you sure that there isn’t some other reason you’re calling?”
“I’ve been struck by inspiration and am eager to get your professional opinion on my idea. Not sure what other reason there would be.”
“Women find me pretty irresistible, so I’m flattered if you are asking me out on a date, but want to be clear that I’m not interested in dating any of Ashima’s friends. She can try all she wants, but I’m not dating you or anyone else she digs up.”
I noisily rub my shirt over the microphone. “Sorry about that. I was just removing the throw up off my phone.” I clear my throat. “Hate to break this news, but I have no problem resisting you.”
I bite back that it wouldn’t be so awful to go on a date with me, because really this is irrelevant. Instead, I hold up my hand in oath even though he can’t see me. “And I swear Ashima doesn’t even know I’m calling you. I haven’t talked to her since drinks.”
“Okay. I guess I buy that.” Then he crunches again. I hope he chews with his mouth closed tonight. “So I get to stuff my face and drink free booze, and the price of admission is talking to a bunch of weird monkey doctors. I’m in. Can’t be the worst thing I’ve signed up for.”
We agree to a pickup time and end the call. This is happening. I’m taking the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met to meet my coworkers. Even if this isn’t the worst thing he’s signed up for, it’s surely my stupidest.
After work, I drive straight to Midtown to Nick’s condo to pick up Max for the fundraiser. I circle the block looking for a place to pull over to text, and by the time I complete the lap, a space has opened in front of the building. The sidewalks are busy with people and dogs, causing lots of posturing. The most obvious is by the canines who yap and sniff and make their territorial claims well known. But the humans have their own subtle choreography. The suited workers glare as they cut around groups of people milling about in shorts and T-shirts, while these groups roll their eyes behind the passing backs of the power walkers. And unaffected by any of the bustling activity is a wild-haired man leaning with his foot against the building, his neck craning over his phone. Max.
I give him points for his promptness, but his outfit negates them. His faded mustard-colored shirt with two dingy, wide beige stripes looks like a bowling league shirt from the seventies. The shirt could be cool if it had been washed in the decades since. His dark-khaki pants are equally dingy. I try to view him with the impartiality that my coworkers would give him. His shirt is a button-down, and he’s not wearing jeans or shorts—I guess he’s minimally presentable. And with his rugged build, he’s somewhat cute in a Paleolithic hunter-gatherer way. But even though he has a look where I wouldn’t mind seeing him in a loincloth, I’m not so sure I want to introduce him to my boss.
He looks up and notices my car. Recognition passes over his face and we stare at one another, him likely second-guessing the evening’s arrangement as I so desperately am. He proceeds toward me. Please let our second encounter go better than the first.
Our greetings are brief as he climbs in. As I merge in with traffic and cut my way through Midtown, we drive in silence. He finally breaks it by asking, “So tell me about this problem.”
“I’ve been following some patterns among the members of a chimpanzee troop. And well…I had an idea…” I’ve decided to keep the how and why of my project high level and not get into the details of my observations on primate constipation or my poop pivot chart. “So, you see…on those patterns…how to describe this? What I’m trying to say is I want a computer to review video for these patterns instead. Basically, I want artificial intelligence to help me gather data about this chimpanzee community.”
“Interesting. Totally outside of what I do, but interesting.”
“Oh, so you don’t have any suggestions or insight? Or know anyone?”
“I have a friend from undergrad who studied machine learning. Really more of a friend of a friend. Big nerd. Doing his PhD at MIT. He should be close to wrapping up by now, might even be done at this point. I could see if I can get his number or I’m sure I can find him online. If nothing else, I’m sure we can find him through the school directory.”
The directory. Of course. “Huh. Okay, thanks. I may take you up on that, but maybe I should just reach out to the computer science department just over on the other side of campus. Maybe we could form a partnership.”
“That sounds even better.” He winks at me. “Glad I could help.”
And with that, the reason I invited Max along is complete. Given the outcome, even meeting him for a drink would’ve been overkill. If only my discomfort with my study matter hadn’t impeded providing a minimal explanation over the phone, then I could’ve saved both of us the trouble of this evening. I slow a bit, keeping to a few miles per hour under the speed limit as I think through the etiquette of the situation.
Human societal constructs are so confusing, but I’m pretty sure I’m obligated to take him, even though we’ve fulfilled the purpose of the meeting. But I can still offer him an out and hope he sees it as socially graceful to take it.
“Well, thanks for talking through things with me. If you don’t want to go tonight, I can take you back home. I don’t want to needlessly drag you through this long, boring event.”
“Nah, it’s good. Free food and drinks, right? I’m in.”
Of course he is.
We complete the rest of the drive in silence. As I slow to turn into the parking lot for the party, a car approaching from the opposite direction jerks abruptly in front of me, causing me to slam on my brakes to avoid T-boning it.
“Asshole.” Max flips off the driver as he passes. “Follow him. Park next to him.”
The last way I want to make an impression on my new colleagues is by getting into a spat in the parking lot, so I turn in the opposite direction. I pass along the side of the building, heading to what I hope is parking in the rear.
“Turn around. Don’t be a pussy. Park by him so I can ask him what’s his rush.”
“Please don’t use female body parts as an insult. As a female biologist, that’s a pet peeve of mine.”
He groans in response.
“It degrades female organs and diminishes the importance of the female’s role in reproduction, which is doubly infuriating since it is the female of the species that does all the reproductive work and the male’s contribution is purely a few minutes of fun.”
“Hey, don’t diminish my contribution. Those few minutes are very taxing. You have no idea how exhausting it is.”
He grins at me, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of smiling at his joke. As I turn off the car, we both stare at each other. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s thinking the same thing as I am—tonight is going to suck.
The fundraiser is in the college alumni house, which is done up like an old Tudor manor on the outside. When we go inside, I’m reminded of an old-timey ski chalet, with the large lobby carpeted in a red floral pattern and walls paneled in dark wood. We’re pointed to a room in the rear of the house-chalet, where a large room is already filling with fellow employees and their partners.
I don’t know anyone. The prospect of having to introduce myself to some person when I have no information on their standing within the hierarchy in the research community is nausea inducing. For the first time since picking up Max, I’m relieved I brought him along. Bad company is better than no company.
For whatever reason, having a drink in hand always seems to make conversations easier. My hypothesis is that this is because expectations are lowered that anyone will say something particularly clever or intelligent, while simultaneously deluding one into thinking that oneself will. This seems to be a well-known trick, because the bar already has a line. I nod toward the end, motioning to Max. “We should get a drink before the line gets longer.” Once in place, I check out the offerings—two different beers and red or white wine.
Then, to my chagrin, Harris enters with his date. I mentally push him toward the food table, as if by pure thought I can prevent him from coming in my direction. There’s no one in line behind Max and me, which means Harris may try to interact with us. But if I maneuver correctly, I can use Max as a human shield and hope this is enough to keep Harris from noticing and talking to me.
“Stand here.” I position Max, so he’s hiding me. “I don’t want to talk to that man who just entered.”
“Why not?” Max glances over his shoulder. “He’s not bad looking and his date is hot.”
“That’s irrelevant. What’s important is his horrible personality, which is why I don’t want to talk to him. He’s always doing these passive-aggressive jabs. It’s gotten old.” I press my arms to my side to ensure I’m well-hidden behind Max. “It’s always stupid little things. Like today, he bragged about how he’s bringing his girlfriend to this as though he’s in some serious relationship that everyone should be jealous of when I’m sure he barely knows her.”
He twists and checks them out. “You’re on to something. Look—his date isn’t that into him.”
I peek around Max to observe. Harris’s date keeps space between Harris and her, though this could be from the discomfort of an unfamiliar environment. They meander toward the end of the line without Harris noticing me.
“Let’s find out. I’m going in.” Max turns around before I can argue.
I grab his arm, trying to turn him back toward me, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, my jerking causes me to stumble beside him, so I’m facing Harris and his date. “Oh hi! Max, meet my coworker Harris.”
This is a disaster! I tighten my grip and plant my legs wide so this time I’m ready to spin Max around if necessary.
As Harris introduces his date, Melanie, he gives Max an obvious once-over and then says, “Glad to see you were able to dig up a date, Peyton.”
My mouth falls open as I teeter between offended and impressed that one comment hit so many of my vulnerabilities. Max elbows me, which helps remove the sting of Harris’s words. At least he caught Harris’s rudeness.
“So, Melanie.” Max squares off toward her. “How did you meet Harris?”
“Oh, well, online dating.” She flashes a smile while fidgeting with her hair and then repositioning her purse strap on her shoulder. The awkwardness of her body language is delicious.
“Cool. Cool. I’ve been there. Love at first swipe, right?”
I didn’t think it was possible for Melanie to look more awkward, but I was wrong—the mention of love sends her eyes into full bug mode. Harris’s fake jovial laugh does nothing to lessen the tension between him and Melanie. Another couple comes in behind him, trapping him next to us as the line slowly moves forward.
“Online. That’s great.” Max tugs at the end of his beard. “So how long have you been Harris’s girlfriend?”
“Oh, no, this is just our second date.” She pulls her purse in front of her body. “We’re not boyfriend-girlfriend.”
“My bad. I just assumed.”
Melanie shifts on her feet farther from Harris. “It’s weird I came, isn’t it? I was on the fence on whether I should—”
“It’s not a big deal.” Harris puts his hand on her back to direct her away from us. “Like I said, I’ll be quick. I’ll say hi to my boss and then we can go to dinner.”
With his face flushing, he avoids making eye contact with me as he leaves. Melanie waves at us over her shoulder as Harris pushes her along. She calls back to us, “Nice to meet you.”
“Guess they’re no longer thirsty,” Max says.
I hug Max’s arm extra hard before releasing it. “That was amazing! Her nervousness, his embarrassment…it was all absolutely delightful.”
“You’re welcome.”
I’m practically hopping as we move forward in the line. We reach the front, where he gets a beer and I get red wine. With our drinks in hand, we move to the side.
“A toast to you, Max, my new true friend. Forget I ever even suggested you were merely a BFB.” I give him the biggest goofy grin because I can’t stop smiling.
He raises his beer, then takes a sip. “Should we check out the grub?”
Our gazes go to the food table. There’s a balding man in a polo and slacks leaning over a platter of assorted cheeses.
“That’s the guy that cut you off. He’s sniffing the cheese, like he’s some expert. What a pompous ass.”
“Shh, keep it down. And I doubt he’s the same man.” Though I’m pretty sure he is one and the same. His polo is bright enough to be the flash of red I saw inside the car. “Plus, we don’t know what his role is. He might be a big donor.”
“Definitely drives like he owns the road. What a boob .” Max beams at me like an irritating child.
My own smile lessens. I know he’s making a joke to rile me. I am still feeling sufficient goodwill toward Max to offer him an out. “By boob, do you mean he’s an essential organ that ensures the survival of our species?”
Max pauses, making me hope he’s deciding to move on from the joke. “No, I mean he’s a useless blob of fat,” he smirks, looking a bit overly pleased at his inaccurate and unoriginal response.
I flare my nostrils and try to ignore him, but my annoyance bubbles over in a matter of nanoseconds. “Will you grow up?” I hiss. “Do you know what you are, Max? You are a flaccid penis. Now that’s a useless blob.”
“Two points for Peyton. But you know, peeing is pretty damn important.” Max hovers behind me and whispers in my ear. “Plus, boob rolls off the tongue so much easier than flaccid penis.”
All goodwill evaporates. How am I to survive a summer of him? He’s smirking at me, waiting for my response, so he can bat back another obnoxious comment. He’s such a child. I sip my wine to distract myself from further engagement, because there is no point.
I can’t believe Ashima thinks I can help her with Max. I think it’s time I tell Ashima I’m out of my comfort zone and that she’d be better served finding a new partner in crime, even though I find it endearing that she’s so desperate she recruited me, the awkward oddball, to help.
No, I’m selling myself short. As I already reminded her, humans are primates.
With all my years of primatology studies, surely I can tame wild Max. Rather than trying to suss out how a human would handle these situations, I need to rely on my training. And I suspect I need to change species, to switch away from chimpanzee methods and borrow a page from the bonobo’s handbook of conflict resolution. While the appearance of chimpanzees and bonobos are similar, their societies have noted differences. Whereas chimpanzees excel in using aggression to resolve disputes, the female-centered bonobos have mastered the use of sexual expression to diffuse tense situations.
We reach the plates, and I feel my resolve waning. Either I commit to helping Ashima or I pick up a plate and keep Max’s mouth shut by shoving in food until I can ditch him. Plate or bonobos.
I can do this. Bonobos unite—this is for Ashima!
“That’s it, Max.”
“What?”
“We’re going to discuss your comments in private.” I grab his arm above the elbow and pull him toward the lobby in search of a bathroom.
“Hey, you’re messing up my shirt. This is vintage.”
He pries at my fingers, so I squeeze tighter, intentionally pressing and twisting the end of his sleeve between my fingers. “Fight me on this and you’re going to lose your sleeve.”
I drag him around the outside corner of the room, where I find two single-room bathrooms. Inside the first, I release him. The room is tight, forcing him to stand in front of the toilet while I squeeze in front of the pedestal sink.
As I lock the door, Max looks at his sleeve. “Damn, it’s puckering now.”
There is a slight distortion in the fabric, but I’m not sure why he cares since the shirt is so old the bottom is fraying. I scoop water from the faucet and slap it onto the fabric.
“Shit. That’s cold. What the hell?”
“It’ll dry and then the shirt will lie flat.” I press the fabric against his skin and it sticks to him, the puckering removed. “There. See.”
“Great.” He rubs at the water running down his arm. “Why the hell did you drag me here?”
“To make my point that breasts are an amazing organ and shouldn’t be used as an insult.”
“You can’t be serious?” Though he’s dismissing me, he has yet to move to leave the cramped room.
“No, I’m passionate about biology.” And I’m fired up enough to plow ahead. My inner bonobo is calling out. I pull my shirt over my head and place it on the top of the paper towel dispenser. “Because of breasts, mammal offspring must stay with their mother. This requires a period of bonding.”
As I undo my bra, I notice Max is no longer offering disparaging side comments. In fact, he seems incapable of any speech at the moment. Bonobos are brilliant.
My bra hangs loose on my shoulders. “Breastfeeding is the foundation of relationships upon which all human civilizations are built. It is the reason mammals developed the ability to bond. The very survival of our species required that a mother care enough about her child for her to sacrifice part of her own nourishment for her dependent offspring, necessitating the evolutionary development of nurturing hormones.”
Max’s mouth drops open as my bra slides down my front. His response is so cartoonish, I half expect him to thump his foot on the ground and howl.
I hang my bra on the bathroom door handle. “From our ancestral female’s glands was created not only sustenance for our forebearers but also the emotional building blocks to form long-term relationships of all types. If it weren’t for breasts, there would be no civilization.
“Breastfeeding has also impacted our nonverbal communication.” I cup my breast, then rub my thumb up the nipple, which puckers from the stimulation. “As the yes head movement mimics how an infant latches.”
Time for a little classroom participation. I grab Max’s hands and cup them around my mammary glands. His touch cools my skin, which I hadn’t expected. The temperature difference is thrilling. Then I push his thumb left to right over my nipple. “And the back and forth no follows the direction of the release from the nipple.”
The air in the bathroom is warming, and Max’s gaping mouth isn’t helping. “Breastfeeding also introduces infants to the tastes of their culture in an easily digestible format, while bolstering their weak immune systems.”
I push his hand so that my breasts are lifted, almost an offering. “They also provide an outward sign of females’ reproductive readiness and are a wonderful tool for sexual arousal. Individuals attracted to females find fondling the breast enjoyable, and because of the large number of nerve endings in the mammary tissue, the recipient also finds the act pleasurable.” I ignore the desire to have him rub his thumb over my nipples again.
“Whereas the male of the species is often ready for procreation in a matter of seconds, females need more foreplay. The breast and nipple provide an area for erotic stimulation to help the female lubricate for penetration.”
I step back from Max and put on my bra. His gaze remains on my chest while I dress, and he offers not a single smart-aleck comment.
“I hope you found this information stimulating, and it has changed your perspective on the wonders of boobs .” I put on my shirt, then grab the front of his pants. “And look at that. You’re not so useless anymore.”
Then I leave the bathroom. I pace outside for a moment, waiting for Max to come out, but abandon my post when I realize I appear to be stalking the bathroom.
The food line has gotten longer, so I take a place at the end. Once I’ve reached the plates, I collect two, as well as silverware and napkins. Finally, Max joins me in line, studying me.
“What took you so long?” I hand him a plate.
“I had to wait a moment to become useless again.”
I give his crotch area a sideways glance. “Oh, I thought you were working one out.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He leans over and whispers, “Your breasts aren’t so amazing that I had to jerk off in the bathroom.”
“Oh, well, a girl can only dream.” I twirl the bottom of my hair.
“Woman, right? Not girl. You have breasts, so you went through puberty.”
“That might be the nicest thing a man has ever said to me.” And I somewhat mean it. I’m touched that he’s recalling this. And I feel a momentary flash of pride that my unusual method seems to have broken through. One little bonobo lesson and Max is sweetening.
“You’re an odd one, Peyton. A bit weird and aggressive, but I like that about you.” Max tugs playfully at my shirtsleeve. “Hey, so what will you do if I call you a pussy?”
“We already discussed that when we arrived.”
“Okay, not as much fun. I’ll stick with boob.”
I scoop a spoonful of pasta salad on my plate. “I think I already made my point.”
“You’re underestimating how thickheaded I am.” He taps the side of his head. “I require intensive tutoring before anything makes it in here.”
“Then get yourself a tutor. As you know, Ashima would be happy to find you someone.”
He slaps an extra-large serving of pasta on his plate. “Oh, come on. Don’t pretend like that wasn’t some sort of mating dance of yours.”
Bonobos are geniuses, but I’m a human fool. “I may have gotten a little carried away in my demonstration. I sincerely apologize if that was confusing.” Misleading Max was not my intention. But, of course, the use of a different species playbook would be disorienting. We humans tie bumping and rubbing of erogenous zones to copulation, not merely a way of letting the steam out of a conflict. “That was not a mating dance. I’m not looking for a STIMP. I’m only here for the summer, and after my abrupt end with Lawrence, I need a break.”
“Oh, come on. You’re telling me you don’t want to STIMP me?” He picks up a piece of cheese with his fingers and tosses it into his mouth.
I scrunch my nose. “It’s not a verb.” Beyond his butchering of my acronym, the accusation is making me feel a bit overly defensive of the possibility that my decision to unite with the bonobos could have been driven in part by a kernel of lust. “What about all your bluster about not wanting to date at all? One flash of some breasts and you’re over it?”
“Fair point,” he says as we exit the line. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t getting your hopes up. I know women have trouble resisting me, and that was the boldest pickup move I’ve never experienced.”
“It wasn’t…”
He throws up his free hand. “I know. I said never. I was joking, my friend.”
“Right, friend.” And thankfully, by the end of the night, I meant it.