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As the boy was clearing his throat to read, my husband whispered that it was such an honor to listen to a Nobel laureate.
“Shhh,” I told him, but I smiled.
The poems were what you might expect from a boy of twelve. There was one from the perspective of a snow leopard, on the brink of extinction. Another about his grandfather and the lessons of his past. The final one was about peace, how it was like a tree that embraced us all in the great sky. The metaphor didn’t quite hold up, but I suppose we all understood what he was trying to say.
lol
I’d finally started online dating. The idea had seemed absurd when I was even a year younger, still certain that I would eventually meet someone naturally, as if the people encountered through dating sites belonged to a different ecosystem or were not entirely human. But recently I’d begun to feel something close to panic. Still, I dreaded the prospect of meeting strangers from the apps at bars and cafés, trying to gauge in the span of an hour whether they might be worth another date, whether they were safe to go home with, whether the total absence of any common interests might feel less estranging with time. I met with two computer engineers and a historian, each a few years older and unable to ask a single question about me, though I offered them many. By my fourth date, with an Australian musician—that was what he called himself, though I suspected that he mostly played the guitar in his flat—I had started to understand that the more I asked, the more they spoke, mistaking my manners for true interest. To pass the time, I made internal bets about how long I could keep him talking, at what point the indulgence might seem strange even to him. But I could also see that he was turned on by my questions; he loved having a chance to speak, no doubt as I would have as well.
After we finished our drinks, the musician suggested wandering around the neighborhood. I knew already that I wouldn’t see him again, but I thought I might kiss him at the end of the evening. As we were reaching my bus stop, he suddenly took my hand and pulled at my arm, twirling me on the pavement. I laughed. It was such a strange gesture, and perhaps also charming; I wasn’t sure.
rough
My date that evening was with a high school science teacher. His pictures made him look athletic, in a rugged, nature-loving sort of way. I knew that these profiles rarely matched reality, but I was still disappointed to discover that he was nothing like his photographs. He was unfit and unkempt, with a slouch of self-pity weighing him down. It took him a long time to order: he went back and forth among three options, and when his dish finally arrived, he said he was upset that he’d made the wrong choice. I found them all so childish, these grown men who couldn’t see beyond themselves, who were incapable of seduction. This one told me at length about his divorce, the two boys he had on alternate weeks. Then, out of the blue, he reached over to pick something off my shoulder before elaborating on the logistics of his children’s visits.
The casual flirtation of the touch was at odds with the man’s awkwardness. It puzzled and intrigued me. I thought I must have misread him, that he was not so straightforward as he seemed, and perhaps this was why I agreed to extend our date, walking with him to the metro once we’d paid. But there were no other signs of mystery. Soon after we parted ways, the man texted to ask if I would like to meet up again the following day. I told him I wouldn’t.
I thought we had a great time? he wrote.
ackkk
We can still spend time together, she said. He stays with us, after all.
I hadn’t realized that, I said. It was very generous of her to allow it.
There’s no big drama, she told me. In fact, they were perfectly civil. It was a state of mind. At some point, it had dawned on her that the marriage had ended and they were only performing a series of gestures they’d committed to memory.
I was interested in this; the internal knowledge. I told her that I often had trouble judging whether a relationship had substance. I could be naive, I said, or oblivious.
In the evening, I looked it up online: twirling, first date, pickup moves. Within seconds, I was reading a list of ways to ensure a successful date. On a first meeting, the website instructed, you should casually remove something off your date’s clothing. Even if there was nothing, you could always pretend to spot a strand of hair, a leaf, a piece of lint. This would create a sense of organic intimacy, from which you could build: touching the woman’s arm to emphasize a point, patting her on the back, taking her hand on a walk. All these steps would come naturally if the foundation of physical intimacy was established early on. A few items down, I read that twirling one’s date out of the blue could signal spontaneity and fun, and make a woman feel like a heroine, playing the lead role.
The following day, even though I hadn’t heard from him, I texted Kafka that I didn’t want to see him again.
Ah! he wrote back. I’ve had a lovely time with you.
nooooo
[...] January’s entries were about the winter sales and some guy named Per I thought might be interested in me. In February it was a guy called Tor and a Mulberry bag I’d managed to get half-price and a pair of shoes I should have bought half a size bigger. I appeared to have seen a lot of films I didn’t like, spent time with female friends who bored me and eaten a lot of rubbish. In between I had been to editorial meetings at Romerikes Blad and scribbled down my thoughts about people, but not once about issues; I had spent my Easter break somewhere hot so that when I came home I’d have a tan for this Tor who I didn’t know if I liked, I couldn’t remember him now, nor was he mentioned again after Easter. The names were interchangeable, as were the dates, there was no sense of progression, no coherence, no joy, only frustration; shopping, sunbathing, gossiping, eating – I might as well have written ‘she’ instead of ‘I’. And had anything changed, had growing older made any difference?
lmao
[...] My guilty conscience hadn’t eased despite the Kosta Boda vase. Should I buy a new diary and write something else? Invent substance and key events or write an entry about the Kosta Boda vase, I really am coming down with something, I thought, so I drove home and went to bed to sleep it off.
[...] Who profited from dead letters being turned into living ones? Financially it made no sense. Then again not everything can be measured in money. And what if profit was the most important criterion? What if people who got their once-dead-now- living letters became so happy they didn’t buy anything for ages? Forget it, I thought, I left the loo, closing the door behind me, what else can you do when your house is on fire, I was freezing cold and burning hot at the same time.
lol
Do others feel the same way, I lay there wondering. Do other people have sex like this? I thought he had done it for my sake, I had a feeling he was doing it for my sake, that he wanted to be good enough, did he sense that I was missing something? Why didn’t I just say no, why didn’t I laugh, why didn’t he laugh, why did we stay awkwardly not speaking, failing to find the words, silent in a rut we couldn’t escape?
:(
At night I sat in front of my laptop, working on a story about a PR consultant in crisis. He looked like Rolf, I called him Bjarne. Bjarne was struggling to come up with a good name for a fish restaurant in a neighbourhood with many other fish restaurants, all of which were vying to be the most real, the oldest and most authentic. There was The Genuine Old Fish Stall, and The Really Genuine Old Fish Stall, and The Genuinely Old Fish Stall with Genuinely Old and Real Fishermen Living in the Basement. Bjarne’s initial proposal was The New Fish Restaurant Where the Genuinely Old Fishermen Have Moved In, but his boss, Børge, thought that was going too far, and Bjarne took offence and snapped that when he sat his exam at the School of Life, he got top marks.
lmao