Ellipses, p.12
Ellipses, page 12
Lily scooted her chair back to its position directly in front of her computer. She clenched and unclenched her fists in her lap and trained her gaze on the transcript document in front of her.
Behavior like Marc’s was too common to bother with or complain about to the office higher-ups. Because what was a person supposed to say, “My male colleague who has no power over my career, but like every man can reduce me to a sexual object, leered at me and thinks I should be grateful to him for doing it”? It was like running to the doctor every time one’s nose was stuffy. Somehow, it made more sense to make do with consistently less air.
Lily resumed transcribing in the hopes that its monotony would lull her into a stupor.
“…finish. And then we also use dyes made from organic plants for our different color needs. We’re planning to introduce some new slogans for spring just in time for International Women’s Day. ‘Be Aggressive.’ You know, like that high school sports team cheer. And ‘Assert Yourself.’ A riff on Madonna, of course. And…”
Buzz buzz.
Alison: How’s it going?
Alison: You still having drinks with Jordan tonight?
Lily: Yeah.
Lily: And I’ve been better.
Alison: Why? Everything okay?
Lily: That guy Marc. The digital editor. Just sat down on my desk and was all like, “I was on vacation in Brazil and Brazilians are hot and you look just like the hot women there.”
Alison: Gross.
Alison: You told him to get lost?
Lily: I said I had to get back to work. And he walked away.
Alison: I’m sorry. So annoying.
Lily: The idiot didn’t even fetishize the correct background.
Alison: Fetishize?
Lily: He made it specifically about race.
Alison: Just try to stay away from him.
Lily: Yeah.
Alison: What a creep.
Lily’s drinks date with Jordan was in the east sixties, at a bar they had agreed upon for its quiet elegance, a palate cleanser from the aggressive cool of Jordan’s and Lily’s respective work environments. Situated in the back of a hotel, the place was, essentially, a gorgeously appointed living room that happened to come with a waitstaff, kitchen, and fully stocked bar. Arrangements of tan wool sofas and club chairs provided ample seating options, the coffee tables were piled high with art and fashion books, and there was a fireplace, which the servers lit on chillier nights. New York apartments, save for those belonging to the very wealthy, were known for their claustrophobic dimensions. Public spaces that exuded cozy domesticity like this bar allowed New Yorkers to experience, for a couple of hours and the cost of some overpriced cocktails, what it might be like to own acceptably spacious real estate. In essence, these spots conferred on New Yorkers the semblance of proper adulthood before their carriages turned into pumpkins and they trudged back to their glorified dorm rooms.
Lily chose two tiger-striped dining chairs that framed a large side table and ordered a gin martini. She preferred vodka, but she had read in one of the many interviews B had done that she only drank martinis with gin. “Vodka is for philistines,” she had said. “It’s for people who don’t want to taste their alcohol. The only real martini is a gin martini.” Perhaps she could sip some of B’s aura.
Her martini was served ice-cold with two olives propped up against the coupe’s ledge. Lily brought the glass to her mouth. The heavy, fruity smell of the gin hit her and she paused. Then she sipped cautiously. Compared to the vodka iteration she preferred, the drink was cloying,like she had swallowed a florist’s entire inventory. Lily gulped from her tumbler of water to wash the flavor away. She glared at her martini, as though the drink was to blame. Lily really didn’t like gin, but maybe she needed to try harder.
Buzz buzz.
Alison: What are you up to?
Lily: Waiting for Jordan.
Lily: How’s work?
Alison: Okay. I’m training a new analyst.
Alison: I swear to god this kid has never used PowerPoint.
Alison: I feel like I’m teaching him how to read.
Lily: Ugh. I’m sorry.
Lily: Maybe you can punt him to another team.
Lily plucked a potato chip from a bowl on the side table and crunched it. Buzz buzz.
Alison: What are you drinking?
Lily: A martini.
Alison: Nice. Have one for me. I’m going to be at the office for a while longer.
Jordan arrived, a paragon of understatement in a gray sweater, a tan jacket, and crisp Japanese denim finished with an anonymous brown belt. Jordan’s occupation relied on downtown edge, but his personal style was more in keeping with the bar’s whispered surroundings, tiger-striped chairs notwithstanding. He resented the idea that flamboyance was expected to be his fashion language simply because of who he dated and where he worked. No trace of a colorful print or a fitted muscle tee had made contact with his body since his college years.
“I hope I’m not late!” he said. He wrapped Lily in his sturdy arms, muscles palpable but not visible beneath roomy gray wool.
“Not at all,” said Lily. “I was just getting a head start.”
Jordan eased into the chair across from her. He leaned forward and sniffed at Lily’s glass.
“Is that gin? Since when do you drink gin?”
“Yes. I’m trying something new.”
“Good for you,” said Jordan as he scanned the bar’s menu. “Shake things up.”
He requested a double tequila with a glass of ice on the side.
“What’s new?” he asked. “Besides your alcohol choice.”
“Not much. How’s work?”
“We’re hanging that new show this week.”
“The abstract painter from North Carolina?”
“That’s the one. I’m excited. Her colors are so intense. I wish I could own one of her paintings.”
Lily sipped another painful dose from the glass of gin. “Maybe one day you will.”
“Not working this job, I won’t. It’s the great irony, isn’t it? You and I got into fashion and art out of passion. And because we work in fashion and art, we’ll never make enough money to buy anything from our favorite designers and artists. We can do what we love or own what we love—but never both.”
“Yeah. Irony is one word for it. Are you happy at work? I mean, do you think you’ll stay there awhile?”
Jordan leaned back in his chair. “Happy enough? There isn’t really anywhere for me to go. It’s a small gallery. And my boss has been there forever. They’ll have to drag her out in a straitjacket.”
“What would you do next?”
Jordan smiled. “No idea. I could go to another gallery. Or try art consulting. Or…I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t that scare you?”
Her glass was half-empty now. If they stayed for another round, she would have to rethink her beverage choice. No way could she consume two of these flower bombs.
“It excites me. We’re young. We have so much time to try different things.”
Lily ran a finger along the stem of her glass. She didn’t feel young. She was tired. And out of options. She and Jordan were the same age and he had the positivity of a pre-recession college graduate. He fairly beamed with health. And Lily was like a dried-up puddle next to him. Wherever his optimism came from, she wanted to pay its source a visit.
“I constantly feel like I’m running out of time. Like every decision I have to make needs to happen now.”
Jordan added an ice cube to his tequila. He frowned at Lily. “Well, time moves differently for you than it does for me,” he said gently, adding, “Even if you don’t plan to have children.”
“But why should it?” Lily asked as heat rose in her chest. “If I don’t, for example. Why should it still affect me?”
“I don’t know. It’s not fair.”
“Yeah.” Lily drained the rest of the gin. It coated her tongue in its heavy bouquet. “If you don’t have kids or get married, do you think you’ll feel like less of a man?”
“I haven’t met any guys I’d want to settle down with. I know my parents would like grandchildren.” Jordan swallowed the remainder of his tequila.
“You didn’t really answer the question.”
“I think I’d feel like a disappointment. To my family. But I wouldn’t feel like less of a man.” Jordan smiled at Lily. “Are you maybe projecting a little? Because you’ll feel like less of a woman if you don’t have kids?”
“Maybe. A part of me will, yes. And I hate myself for feeling that way. It means I’ve bought into the messed-up idea that my only worth is my womb.”
“Well, you haven’t bought into it so much that you’re letting it dictate your choices. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”
“I guess. It’s not like I could afford children even if I wanted them, not with this job.”
“That’s what rich spouses are for.”
“Do you want to have children? With your future rich spouse, obviously. Like, for yourself, outside of whatever your parents think.”
Jordan crossed one ankle over a thigh. “I don’t know. I like kids. But I worry that I might want them for the wrong reasons.”
“Meaning?”
“I might want them to prove a point. That I belong. And that I deserve to have a family, too.”
“You do. And you also deserve to not have one if you don’t want one.”
“I know. But it’s not that simple.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Lily didn’t discuss this topic with Marissa. Because she knew that Marissa would almost definitely get married and have children, like all her straight women friends. Any conversation like this would begin from a place of Lily’s otherness in relation to convention, a convention that Marissa herself upheld. Lily would be forced to defend her choices in a way that Marissa and her other friends never had to do. Though Jordan didn’t experience the same pressure that women of any sexuality did to procreate, his romantic choices, like Lily’s, had the added weight of shaping not just the structure of his life, but also the palatability of his sexual identity. If Jordan decided to get married and have kids, he would implicitly be adopting a heteronormative idea of happiness. There was nothing wrong with this, but a part of him might always wonder if his decisions were motivated by some hidden need to assimilate into straight society. Assimilation wasn’t categorically wrong, either, but something was often lost in its process. The potential of this loss clouded the waters of his decision-making—and Lily’s. The possibility of conformity dangled before Jordan and Lily in a way it hadn’t for the generations that came before them. Like so many other rights newly granted to those on the margins, this one came loaded with a complicated calculus.
“Well, whatever you decide, whenever you decide it, I just want you to be happy,” Lily said.
“Thanks. And the same goes for you.” Jordan eyed Lily’s empty coupe. “Another round?”
“Sure. But I’m switching to vodka.”
* * *
• • •
After drinks, Lily and Jordan walked across Central Park South to the west-side subway lines. Jordan headed back down to Chelsea and Lily found a seat on an uptown train. Once safely in her apartment, Lily realized she had never texted B about her earlier interactions at work. She unzipped her dress and hung it in her closet. Surely B would have her own advice to add to Alison’s response.
Lily: Our digital editor was a total lech to me today.
Lily: I’d appreciate any coping strategies.
Lily: Besides alcohol after work.
Lily placed a pot of water on the stove. She turned the burner on high and removed a box of pasta from a cabinet along with a bowl. Her stomach craved real food before it would allow her to sleep. Buzz buzz.
B: Are you drunk?
Lily: Tipsy.
B: Ah.
B: What happened with your colleague?
Lily: He made a creepy comment about how I look.
Lily: Like, You’re hot like these Brazilian women I saw on vacation.
B: Your colleague thinks you’re hot?
Lily: It’s not what he said. It’s how he said it.
Lily: Like leaned in too close. Acted like I should be thanking him.
Steam made a hasty escape from the lid of the pot. Lily dumped the contents of the pasta box into the boiling water and set a timer on her phone. She removed a hunk of Parmesan from her fridge and fetched a Microplane from a drawer. Buzz buzz.
B: You’re being dramatic.
Lily: Are you serious?
B: How do you know he wasn’t just trying to be nice?
Beep beep. Lily drained the pasta into a colander in the sink; steam basted her face. She transferred the pasta to the bowl.
Lily: Please tell me you’re joking.
Lily: I’m thirty-two. I know the difference between a guy giving a harmless compliment and a guy sexualizing you.
Lily: It wasn’t like, “Your hair looks nice today.” Or: “Those are pretty shoes.”
Lily: It was like, “Don’t mind me while I undress you with my eyes.”
Lily: It made me super uncomfortable.
Lily drizzled olive oil over the pasta and tossed the pasta and oil half-heartedly with her fork. Buzz buzz.
B: Did you tell him that?
Lily: Of course not.
Lily: If I said anything, he’d deny it.
B: If you don’t say anything, how is he supposed to know he did something wrong?
Lily: I’m supposed to educate him on how not to be a dick?
B: If you’re not going to do anything, what is the point in talking about it?
Lily: It sucks. Now I have to worry about avoiding him and not doing anything that he could mistake as encouragement.
Lily: When I want to go to the office and do my job.
Lily: And he never has to think about it again.
Lily slid the Parmesan across the Microplane until a soft mountain of snowy cheese covered the pasta. Then she mixed the contents and ground some black pepper over it.
Buzz buzz.
B: You have no idea what women before you had to put up with.
B: If you knew, you wouldn’t be complaining about something so minor.
B: Things are so much easier for you.
And B had no idea what it was like to be fetishized relentlessly starting in childhood. Lily wanted to ask B how many times grown men had approached her eleven-year-old self on the street like she was a child sex worker while she wore her middle school soccer uniform. How many categories on pornography sites were devoted to her ethnic origins. And how many of her ancestors had been legally banned from immigrating to this country because it was presumed that they were prostitutes. But she knew from past exchanges with other white women, especially those of B’s generation, that the mention of fetishization was usually taken as a boast of attractiveness instead of what it really was: an expression of fear at the latent danger that lurked beneath the surface. To hope for compassion or acknowledgment on the topic was to scream into an abyss.
B: You don’t realize how much those before you have sacrificed.
B: And continue to.
Lily: Of course I know. I’m not that much younger than you.
The pasta needed more cheese. Lily added another, smaller cloud of shaved Parmesan and tossed it in with her fork.
Buzz buzz.
B: You’re eons younger to me.
Lily: It’s called a microaggression. In case you’re unfamiliar with the term.
Lily stuffed a forkful of hot, cheesy, and peppery pasta into her mouth and chewed it furiously. Buzz buzz.
B: I know the term, thanks.
B: I never had time to worry about microaggressions. I was too busy with real aggressions.
Lily: Shouldn’t it be a sign of progress if people who come after you worry about different things?
Lily: Or would you rather I still had to deal with the same shit that you did?
B: No. Of course not.
B: Just be grateful.
Lily: I am.
With her fork, Lily stabbed two pieces of pasta stuck together near the bowl’s edge and jammed them into her mouth. So much for her peaceful, drunken dinner. Buzz buzz.
B: You don’t sound grateful.
B: This is life as a woman.
B: Deal with it.
Lily: I’m not going to apologize for thinking I deserve better.
Lily: That we all do.
Lily: Including you.
Lily slammed her phone down on her sofa. Fuck B. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth. Then she tumbled into an alcohol-and-pasta-induced coma.
11
• • •
Lily’s mouth was dry like sand when she awoke the next morning. She expected a series of text notifications to dance across her phone. Surely, in the past seven hours, B had contemplated her actions and crafted an apology. She had been worked up over something else. Her frustration hadn’t been aimed at Lily. She certainly hadn’t meant to be so harsh. She was sorry. But Lily’s screen was blank, save for a few emails and her daily horoscope. Blinking in annoyance, Lily dragged herself to the kitchen and downed three tall glasses of water. She would give B at least until noon. Maybe she was the type of person who liked to deal with these responses the morning after.
By lunchtime, there was still no word from B, no heartfelt apology or even a generic outreach that ignored the previous night’s argument. And Lily was jittery with discomfort. It was her first fight with B—uncharted terrain. Lily couldn’t recall any major impasses with Marissa or Jordan. Lily and Alison had also rarely fought in the many years of their relationship, a blatant affront to the stereotypes about two women always being at each other’s proverbial throats.
Behavior like Marc’s was too common to bother with or complain about to the office higher-ups. Because what was a person supposed to say, “My male colleague who has no power over my career, but like every man can reduce me to a sexual object, leered at me and thinks I should be grateful to him for doing it”? It was like running to the doctor every time one’s nose was stuffy. Somehow, it made more sense to make do with consistently less air.
Lily resumed transcribing in the hopes that its monotony would lull her into a stupor.
“…finish. And then we also use dyes made from organic plants for our different color needs. We’re planning to introduce some new slogans for spring just in time for International Women’s Day. ‘Be Aggressive.’ You know, like that high school sports team cheer. And ‘Assert Yourself.’ A riff on Madonna, of course. And…”
Buzz buzz.
Alison: How’s it going?
Alison: You still having drinks with Jordan tonight?
Lily: Yeah.
Lily: And I’ve been better.
Alison: Why? Everything okay?
Lily: That guy Marc. The digital editor. Just sat down on my desk and was all like, “I was on vacation in Brazil and Brazilians are hot and you look just like the hot women there.”
Alison: Gross.
Alison: You told him to get lost?
Lily: I said I had to get back to work. And he walked away.
Alison: I’m sorry. So annoying.
Lily: The idiot didn’t even fetishize the correct background.
Alison: Fetishize?
Lily: He made it specifically about race.
Alison: Just try to stay away from him.
Lily: Yeah.
Alison: What a creep.
Lily’s drinks date with Jordan was in the east sixties, at a bar they had agreed upon for its quiet elegance, a palate cleanser from the aggressive cool of Jordan’s and Lily’s respective work environments. Situated in the back of a hotel, the place was, essentially, a gorgeously appointed living room that happened to come with a waitstaff, kitchen, and fully stocked bar. Arrangements of tan wool sofas and club chairs provided ample seating options, the coffee tables were piled high with art and fashion books, and there was a fireplace, which the servers lit on chillier nights. New York apartments, save for those belonging to the very wealthy, were known for their claustrophobic dimensions. Public spaces that exuded cozy domesticity like this bar allowed New Yorkers to experience, for a couple of hours and the cost of some overpriced cocktails, what it might be like to own acceptably spacious real estate. In essence, these spots conferred on New Yorkers the semblance of proper adulthood before their carriages turned into pumpkins and they trudged back to their glorified dorm rooms.
Lily chose two tiger-striped dining chairs that framed a large side table and ordered a gin martini. She preferred vodka, but she had read in one of the many interviews B had done that she only drank martinis with gin. “Vodka is for philistines,” she had said. “It’s for people who don’t want to taste their alcohol. The only real martini is a gin martini.” Perhaps she could sip some of B’s aura.
Her martini was served ice-cold with two olives propped up against the coupe’s ledge. Lily brought the glass to her mouth. The heavy, fruity smell of the gin hit her and she paused. Then she sipped cautiously. Compared to the vodka iteration she preferred, the drink was cloying,like she had swallowed a florist’s entire inventory. Lily gulped from her tumbler of water to wash the flavor away. She glared at her martini, as though the drink was to blame. Lily really didn’t like gin, but maybe she needed to try harder.
Buzz buzz.
Alison: What are you up to?
Lily: Waiting for Jordan.
Lily: How’s work?
Alison: Okay. I’m training a new analyst.
Alison: I swear to god this kid has never used PowerPoint.
Alison: I feel like I’m teaching him how to read.
Lily: Ugh. I’m sorry.
Lily: Maybe you can punt him to another team.
Lily plucked a potato chip from a bowl on the side table and crunched it. Buzz buzz.
Alison: What are you drinking?
Lily: A martini.
Alison: Nice. Have one for me. I’m going to be at the office for a while longer.
Jordan arrived, a paragon of understatement in a gray sweater, a tan jacket, and crisp Japanese denim finished with an anonymous brown belt. Jordan’s occupation relied on downtown edge, but his personal style was more in keeping with the bar’s whispered surroundings, tiger-striped chairs notwithstanding. He resented the idea that flamboyance was expected to be his fashion language simply because of who he dated and where he worked. No trace of a colorful print or a fitted muscle tee had made contact with his body since his college years.
“I hope I’m not late!” he said. He wrapped Lily in his sturdy arms, muscles palpable but not visible beneath roomy gray wool.
“Not at all,” said Lily. “I was just getting a head start.”
Jordan eased into the chair across from her. He leaned forward and sniffed at Lily’s glass.
“Is that gin? Since when do you drink gin?”
“Yes. I’m trying something new.”
“Good for you,” said Jordan as he scanned the bar’s menu. “Shake things up.”
He requested a double tequila with a glass of ice on the side.
“What’s new?” he asked. “Besides your alcohol choice.”
“Not much. How’s work?”
“We’re hanging that new show this week.”
“The abstract painter from North Carolina?”
“That’s the one. I’m excited. Her colors are so intense. I wish I could own one of her paintings.”
Lily sipped another painful dose from the glass of gin. “Maybe one day you will.”
“Not working this job, I won’t. It’s the great irony, isn’t it? You and I got into fashion and art out of passion. And because we work in fashion and art, we’ll never make enough money to buy anything from our favorite designers and artists. We can do what we love or own what we love—but never both.”
“Yeah. Irony is one word for it. Are you happy at work? I mean, do you think you’ll stay there awhile?”
Jordan leaned back in his chair. “Happy enough? There isn’t really anywhere for me to go. It’s a small gallery. And my boss has been there forever. They’ll have to drag her out in a straitjacket.”
“What would you do next?”
Jordan smiled. “No idea. I could go to another gallery. Or try art consulting. Or…I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t that scare you?”
Her glass was half-empty now. If they stayed for another round, she would have to rethink her beverage choice. No way could she consume two of these flower bombs.
“It excites me. We’re young. We have so much time to try different things.”
Lily ran a finger along the stem of her glass. She didn’t feel young. She was tired. And out of options. She and Jordan were the same age and he had the positivity of a pre-recession college graduate. He fairly beamed with health. And Lily was like a dried-up puddle next to him. Wherever his optimism came from, she wanted to pay its source a visit.
“I constantly feel like I’m running out of time. Like every decision I have to make needs to happen now.”
Jordan added an ice cube to his tequila. He frowned at Lily. “Well, time moves differently for you than it does for me,” he said gently, adding, “Even if you don’t plan to have children.”
“But why should it?” Lily asked as heat rose in her chest. “If I don’t, for example. Why should it still affect me?”
“I don’t know. It’s not fair.”
“Yeah.” Lily drained the rest of the gin. It coated her tongue in its heavy bouquet. “If you don’t have kids or get married, do you think you’ll feel like less of a man?”
“I haven’t met any guys I’d want to settle down with. I know my parents would like grandchildren.” Jordan swallowed the remainder of his tequila.
“You didn’t really answer the question.”
“I think I’d feel like a disappointment. To my family. But I wouldn’t feel like less of a man.” Jordan smiled at Lily. “Are you maybe projecting a little? Because you’ll feel like less of a woman if you don’t have kids?”
“Maybe. A part of me will, yes. And I hate myself for feeling that way. It means I’ve bought into the messed-up idea that my only worth is my womb.”
“Well, you haven’t bought into it so much that you’re letting it dictate your choices. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”
“I guess. It’s not like I could afford children even if I wanted them, not with this job.”
“That’s what rich spouses are for.”
“Do you want to have children? With your future rich spouse, obviously. Like, for yourself, outside of whatever your parents think.”
Jordan crossed one ankle over a thigh. “I don’t know. I like kids. But I worry that I might want them for the wrong reasons.”
“Meaning?”
“I might want them to prove a point. That I belong. And that I deserve to have a family, too.”
“You do. And you also deserve to not have one if you don’t want one.”
“I know. But it’s not that simple.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Lily didn’t discuss this topic with Marissa. Because she knew that Marissa would almost definitely get married and have children, like all her straight women friends. Any conversation like this would begin from a place of Lily’s otherness in relation to convention, a convention that Marissa herself upheld. Lily would be forced to defend her choices in a way that Marissa and her other friends never had to do. Though Jordan didn’t experience the same pressure that women of any sexuality did to procreate, his romantic choices, like Lily’s, had the added weight of shaping not just the structure of his life, but also the palatability of his sexual identity. If Jordan decided to get married and have kids, he would implicitly be adopting a heteronormative idea of happiness. There was nothing wrong with this, but a part of him might always wonder if his decisions were motivated by some hidden need to assimilate into straight society. Assimilation wasn’t categorically wrong, either, but something was often lost in its process. The potential of this loss clouded the waters of his decision-making—and Lily’s. The possibility of conformity dangled before Jordan and Lily in a way it hadn’t for the generations that came before them. Like so many other rights newly granted to those on the margins, this one came loaded with a complicated calculus.
“Well, whatever you decide, whenever you decide it, I just want you to be happy,” Lily said.
“Thanks. And the same goes for you.” Jordan eyed Lily’s empty coupe. “Another round?”
“Sure. But I’m switching to vodka.”
* * *
• • •
After drinks, Lily and Jordan walked across Central Park South to the west-side subway lines. Jordan headed back down to Chelsea and Lily found a seat on an uptown train. Once safely in her apartment, Lily realized she had never texted B about her earlier interactions at work. She unzipped her dress and hung it in her closet. Surely B would have her own advice to add to Alison’s response.
Lily: Our digital editor was a total lech to me today.
Lily: I’d appreciate any coping strategies.
Lily: Besides alcohol after work.
Lily placed a pot of water on the stove. She turned the burner on high and removed a box of pasta from a cabinet along with a bowl. Her stomach craved real food before it would allow her to sleep. Buzz buzz.
B: Are you drunk?
Lily: Tipsy.
B: Ah.
B: What happened with your colleague?
Lily: He made a creepy comment about how I look.
Lily: Like, You’re hot like these Brazilian women I saw on vacation.
B: Your colleague thinks you’re hot?
Lily: It’s not what he said. It’s how he said it.
Lily: Like leaned in too close. Acted like I should be thanking him.
Steam made a hasty escape from the lid of the pot. Lily dumped the contents of the pasta box into the boiling water and set a timer on her phone. She removed a hunk of Parmesan from her fridge and fetched a Microplane from a drawer. Buzz buzz.
B: You’re being dramatic.
Lily: Are you serious?
B: How do you know he wasn’t just trying to be nice?
Beep beep. Lily drained the pasta into a colander in the sink; steam basted her face. She transferred the pasta to the bowl.
Lily: Please tell me you’re joking.
Lily: I’m thirty-two. I know the difference between a guy giving a harmless compliment and a guy sexualizing you.
Lily: It wasn’t like, “Your hair looks nice today.” Or: “Those are pretty shoes.”
Lily: It was like, “Don’t mind me while I undress you with my eyes.”
Lily: It made me super uncomfortable.
Lily drizzled olive oil over the pasta and tossed the pasta and oil half-heartedly with her fork. Buzz buzz.
B: Did you tell him that?
Lily: Of course not.
Lily: If I said anything, he’d deny it.
B: If you don’t say anything, how is he supposed to know he did something wrong?
Lily: I’m supposed to educate him on how not to be a dick?
B: If you’re not going to do anything, what is the point in talking about it?
Lily: It sucks. Now I have to worry about avoiding him and not doing anything that he could mistake as encouragement.
Lily: When I want to go to the office and do my job.
Lily: And he never has to think about it again.
Lily slid the Parmesan across the Microplane until a soft mountain of snowy cheese covered the pasta. Then she mixed the contents and ground some black pepper over it.
Buzz buzz.
B: You have no idea what women before you had to put up with.
B: If you knew, you wouldn’t be complaining about something so minor.
B: Things are so much easier for you.
And B had no idea what it was like to be fetishized relentlessly starting in childhood. Lily wanted to ask B how many times grown men had approached her eleven-year-old self on the street like she was a child sex worker while she wore her middle school soccer uniform. How many categories on pornography sites were devoted to her ethnic origins. And how many of her ancestors had been legally banned from immigrating to this country because it was presumed that they were prostitutes. But she knew from past exchanges with other white women, especially those of B’s generation, that the mention of fetishization was usually taken as a boast of attractiveness instead of what it really was: an expression of fear at the latent danger that lurked beneath the surface. To hope for compassion or acknowledgment on the topic was to scream into an abyss.
B: You don’t realize how much those before you have sacrificed.
B: And continue to.
Lily: Of course I know. I’m not that much younger than you.
The pasta needed more cheese. Lily added another, smaller cloud of shaved Parmesan and tossed it in with her fork.
Buzz buzz.
B: You’re eons younger to me.
Lily: It’s called a microaggression. In case you’re unfamiliar with the term.
Lily stuffed a forkful of hot, cheesy, and peppery pasta into her mouth and chewed it furiously. Buzz buzz.
B: I know the term, thanks.
B: I never had time to worry about microaggressions. I was too busy with real aggressions.
Lily: Shouldn’t it be a sign of progress if people who come after you worry about different things?
Lily: Or would you rather I still had to deal with the same shit that you did?
B: No. Of course not.
B: Just be grateful.
Lily: I am.
With her fork, Lily stabbed two pieces of pasta stuck together near the bowl’s edge and jammed them into her mouth. So much for her peaceful, drunken dinner. Buzz buzz.
B: You don’t sound grateful.
B: This is life as a woman.
B: Deal with it.
Lily: I’m not going to apologize for thinking I deserve better.
Lily: That we all do.
Lily: Including you.
Lily slammed her phone down on her sofa. Fuck B. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth. Then she tumbled into an alcohol-and-pasta-induced coma.
11
• • •
Lily’s mouth was dry like sand when she awoke the next morning. She expected a series of text notifications to dance across her phone. Surely, in the past seven hours, B had contemplated her actions and crafted an apology. She had been worked up over something else. Her frustration hadn’t been aimed at Lily. She certainly hadn’t meant to be so harsh. She was sorry. But Lily’s screen was blank, save for a few emails and her daily horoscope. Blinking in annoyance, Lily dragged herself to the kitchen and downed three tall glasses of water. She would give B at least until noon. Maybe she was the type of person who liked to deal with these responses the morning after.
By lunchtime, there was still no word from B, no heartfelt apology or even a generic outreach that ignored the previous night’s argument. And Lily was jittery with discomfort. It was her first fight with B—uncharted terrain. Lily couldn’t recall any major impasses with Marissa or Jordan. Lily and Alison had also rarely fought in the many years of their relationship, a blatant affront to the stereotypes about two women always being at each other’s proverbial throats.
