He didn’t acknowledge his christening, but I felt good about it.
And then I had no choice but to shake off my fugue state and get back to work.
While my world has been officially blown open by so many things, the power of cunnilingus notwithstanding, a girl still has bills to pay.
I crack my knuckles and straighten my keyboard on my desk and then type away, pushing the weird dream out of my mind, the weird image of that fiery, electric circle.
The multiverse is not only an interconnected, ever-expanding conglomerate of contained systems, it is also, Theodore Lake theorizes, interconnected as a web. Much like the World Wide Web, which is connected through a series of servers and fiber optic lines, undersea cables, and satellite links all over the world, so are universes interlinked by a mysterious set of veins and threads. Lake also theorizes that each universe link exists parallel to but also exempt from the space-time continuum.
I lean back in my chair and then jerk to the right, glancing over my shoulder. An unnerving sensation takes over me.
I’ve spent more time out of my apartment these past few weeks than I have in years.
And it’s having an effect on me.
In fact, my apartment is really spooking me out.
I have this feeling like I’m being watched, like there are eyes on me from somewhere floating in the distance. It’s a new set of anxieties for me, but I brush them aside. Now that I have Mack in my life, my excitement continues to trump almost all my issues. Anxiety, stress, agoraphobia even. My therapist would be proud.
“Oh, yeah, honeymoon phase,” Kate texted yesterday. “But you can only ignore reality for so long. Problems don’t just disappear. You have to solve them.”
I shook my head at that because the girl has no idea what she’s talking about. Did she experience underwater cunnilingus? Methinks not!
I finish up the final paragraphs of my copy and send it along to my boss. Not a moment later, my phone alarm dings out throughout the silence of my apartment. I practically jump in my seat.
While I might be getting out more, I still startle easily. And today, I’m really pushing my limits of travel because I’m going to visit AverageJoeGuy at a pizzeria an hour away.
My weight on the chair may as well be a thousand pounds, though, because part of me wants to blow him off. I don’t want to meet a stranger, especially not one from a random internet forum. I don’t want to potentially rain down on my good mood after my night out with Mack and Kate and her boyfriends. However . . .
AverageJoeGuy knows something I don’t. I just have this suspicion. My intuition is pinging like neurons through the fibers of a cell. Maybe he can help Mack. Maybe he knows a solution to Mack’s very curious situation. If nothing else, maybe he’ll offer more information.
And if he doesn’t, well, I’ve added a spike to my keychain, and I’m not afraid to use it.
I tramp over to my closet, swinging the door open while peeling off my robe. Another day where I have to wear normal clothes. Another day where I cosplay as a regular girl. This closet gets so little use I may as well dust it off.
I pull on jeans and a forest-green sweatshirt in the dark, flipping my hair out from the collar.
And then, after I’ve slipped on my shoes and tucked my little stabby keychain into my pocket, I order a car.
***
The car ride, for the most part, has been mercifully silent. A middle-aged man named Hank is in the front seat humming along to some yacht rock while I sit in the back. Of course, I don’t spend very much time in cars anymore.
It’s nice though. I can totally zone out and watch the scenery go by. We’re near the ocean, so occasionally, we cross long strips of island connectors, water surrounding us on either side. I wonder what the water’s temperature is.
I glance at the time on my phone. Hank is making good time. It seems like I might arrive without any incident at all.
I’m proud of myself for not spiraling into complete terror and anxiety until I catch Hank’s eyes in the rearview mirror, glancing at me one too many times. My body tenses up. My palms break into a cold sweat.
Men are so predictable.
I make a point to disrupt the accidental eye contact, turning my gaze solely to the window, but Hank starts talking anyway. “Hey, you know who you look like?”
I bite my tongue so I don’t roll my eyes. “Medusa?” I ask.
He plows right past my joke. Of course he does. “No, no, no. You look like that one actress. The one who was the mermaid? With the hair? You know the one.”
I do know the one. Of course I know the one. I weigh my options of playing dumb or just playing along with the conversation, and I come to the conclusion that playing dumb will just prolong my suffering. “Daryl Hannah. From Splash.”
“That’s the one!” Hank says, excitement in his voice.
I think the conversation will end, but of course, then it doesn’t. Of course Hank can’t leave it there. “Do you think she had a pussy somewhere in those fins?”
And there it is.
In my modeling days, men used to do this to me all the time—sexualize every conversation, push to make me uncomfortable in every possible way—and I’m still not used to it. In fact, I’m so taken aback that my body begins shaking.
I’m stuck in the car with this man. I can’t get out. Nowhere to go.
I clench my spiky keychain hard. In my fantasy mind, I’m stabbing him right in the side of the neck with it. Carotid artery. Blood spurts.
Dead.
But then he flicks on his right blinker, and we’re turning into the parking lot of the pizzeria.
Fuck.Exhale. Big breath. Let it go.
Although, it’s a good lesson for me. Don’t trust men. Never trust the men.
