Asymptotes
After dropping off Chloe, I drove around and around and eventually stopped at IHOP… I arrange the sugar packets so they all face the same direction. I open a cup of cream and drink it—it’s thick and sticks to my throat. Soon the sugar packets make me anxious, and I mess them up again. Chaos feels better.
I woke up today. Again. There’s always another day. The feeling of tomorrow has never been so daunting before. I showered. The water so hot it scalded my skin. Steam rolled from the water and covered the mirror. I took my finger and wrote on the glass. “Hello.” Backwards, so he could read it. You see, I pretend that the mirror is actually a two-way mirror. My friend lives on the other side. He watches. He understands me. One time he spoke to me. One time. But that was a very long time ago. Now he just watches.
When I was younger, I kept a jar of peanut butter. It was just a normal jar of peanut butter, but he was actually my best friend. I took him everywhere with me; he slept in my bed with me. Most kids have a stuffed animal: I had a jar of peanut butter. I decided to see if my daughter would enjoy it as much as I did as a child. I went to the grocery store and found the aisle with the peanut butter, stared at the shelf, ogled all the jars. I tried to be a five-year-old; I tried to pick the peanut butter I would want as a five-year-old. Organic peanut butter. Chunky peanut butter. Peanut butter with purple jelly in there, too—that could be fun. But I just picked one with a red lid. The red was nice. It made the five-year-old me feel safe. I brought it home and gave it to her. Gave it to my daughter. I wanted to see if it could be her best friend. She asked me to open the lid—she wanted to eat her new friend. I was upset; I was angry. But then I decided it was a good thing that my daughter was nothing like me.
I had to put her to bed tonight. She asked for a story.
“Do you know the story of how I fell in love with your mom?”
She didn’t.
“Everyday she rode her bike down my street. Everyday I would see her. And, one day, I saw her – saw her just like every other day – and realized that I was in love with her. So I bought a chair (I only had one chair and one tiny table in my house). I bought another chair. And then I stopped her on the street. I asked her if she would like a glass of iced tea. She said yes. I told her I didn’t have any sugar; but that was all right, it was “all right,” she said. I gave her a glass of iced tea, put a straw in it. And she asked me if I was going to have a glass, too. I told her that I only had one glass. ‘You only have one glass?’ I told her how there is only one of me. ‘Don’t you have any friends?’ I have a friend. I have one friend. But he doesn’t need a glass. He lives inside the glass. And she said, “This might be crazy, but I think I love you.” I told her it was crazy, and that’s how we fell in love.”
My daughter asked if that’s really how it happened.
“No, we met in a bar,” I said.
“I like it better that way.”
“Which way?”
“The second way.”
“Oh.”
“Dad, you know what we should get?”
“What’s that?”
“One of those vacuums. You know, like on tv. They go around the whole house by themselves. And they just know where to go and what to do, all by themselves. You don’t have to guide them or anything. They just know.”
I want one, too. I want a giant one. And I’ll just ride around on it. It will go where it’s supposed to go, because it just knows. And I will ride it. Because it knows.
