MARIE: Beyond repair?
SHMAC: I think so. There’s a lot of history here.
MARIE: Want to tell me?
The three dots at the base of the screen bounce for a while, so I check my Couch-to-5K app. Looks like today I need to run five minutes, walk one minute, and then run five more minutes. Sounds feasible.
Oh, who am I kidding? It sounds harrowing.
SHMAC: It’s complicated. Part of it is that I rst met her when I was younger.
MARIE: Please don’t tell me you have a secret stemlord past.
SHMAC: I have an asshole past.
MARIE: How many ladies have you harassed on the
internet?
SHMAC: Zero. But I did grow up in a hostile, uncommunicative environment. I was an
uncommunicative person before I realized that I
couldn’t spend the rest of my life like that. I got therapy, which helped me gure out how to deal with feelings that are . . . overwhelming. Except every time I talk to her my brain blanks and I become the person I used to be.
MARIE: Ouch.
SHMAC: I never suspected how some of my actions came across, but in hindsight they make complete sense. Still, something she said makes me wonder if her husband told her some lies that aggravated the situation.
MARIE: You should tell her. If it were me, I’d want to know.
SHMAC: In the end it doesn’t matter. She’s happy with him.
I take a deep breath.
MARIE: Okay, listen. For years I thought that I was happy in a relationship with someone who turned out to be a chronic liar. And in my experience relationships that are based on lies can’t last. Not in the long term. You’d be doing her a favor, if you came clean.
I don’t mention to him that all relationships can’t last. People tend to get defensive when I do. They have to figure it out on their own.
SHMAC: I’m sorry that happened to you.
MARIE: I’m sorry this is happening to you.
SHMAC: Look at us. Two sorry scientists.
MARIE: Is there any other kind?
SHMAC: Not that I know of.
My heart hurts for Shmac as I put on my sneakers. I can’t even imagine how awful it must be, to be in love with a married person. Heartbreaking situations like this vindicate the corporate mission of Bee, Inc.: keep up the Bee-fence. Never, ever fall for someone. If my heart gets broken again, neuroscience will be the one. It’s sure to do a much cleaner job than stupid Tim, anyway. Doctor Curie would support me in this decision, I’m positive.
I spring up from the couch and venture out into the soup-like Houston air for my run.
• • •
IF I RUN at the Space Center, someone I know might see me crawl my way about, and I wouldn’t wish that sight upon an innocent bystander. Google comes to my aid: there’s a little cemetery about five minutes away. Reading baby names like Alford or Brockholst on gravestones might be a nice distraction from the gut-wrenching torment of exercising. I slip in my AirPods, start an Alanis Morissette album, and head that way. It’s 6:43, which means that I can be home and showered in time to watch Love Island.
Don’t judge. It’s an underrated show.
Disappointingly, sitting on the couch thinking about working out has not improved my aerobic fitness. I realize it on minute three of my run, when I collapse in front of the tombstone of Noah F. Moore (surprisingly fitting),
1834– 1902. I lie in the grass drenched in sweat, listening to my heart pound in my ears. Or maybe it’s just Alanis screaming.
I’m not meant for this. And by “this” I mean using my body for anything more strenuous than reaching for my treat cupboard. Which, incidentally, is all my cupboards. Yes, okay: Dr. Curie bonded with her husband over their shared love of cycling and nature walks, but we can’t all be like her: gentlewoman, scholar, and athlete.
When I notice that the sun is setting, I scrape myself off the ground, bid farewell to Noah, and start hobbling home. I’m almost back at the entrance when I notice something: there is no entrance. The tall gates I ran through on my way here are now closed. I try to shake them open, but no dice. I look around. The walls are too high for me to climb— because I’m five feet tall and everything is too high for me to climb.
I take a deep breath. This is okay. It’s fine. I’m not stuck in here. If I follow the walls I’ll find a shorter segment I can easily climb over.
Or not. I definitely haven’t found one fifteen minutes later, when Houston’s firmly in dusk territory and I have to turn on my flashlight app to see a few feet away from me. I sum up the situation in my head: I’m alone (sorry, Noah, you don’t count), stuck in a cemetery after sundown, and my phone is at 20 percent. Oops.
I feel a wave of panic swell and immediately leash it. No. Down. Bad panic. No treats for you. I need to engage in some goal-oriented problem-solving before I can wallow in despair. What can I do?
I could yell and hope someone hears me, but what could they do? Build a makeshift rope with their belts? Hmm. Seems like a traumatic brain injury waiting to happen. Pass.
I could call 911, then. Though 911 is probably busy saving people who actually deserve to be saved. People who didn’t moronically get themselves locked inside a cemetery at night. Calling someone I know would be better.
I could ask someone to bring me a ladder. Yes, that sounds good.
