His direct flight to New York doesn’t take off for another two hours, and he spends them using his newly obtained line of credit on a shaving kit, an iPad, and a meal at McDonald’s. He cleans himself up in the restroom and fills the iPad with as much information on Amanda’s life as he can pull off the airport’s glacial public Wi-Fi. He considers purchasing a change of clothes but decides that would be tempting fate. He keeps his reality-slipping wardrobe on.
After settling into his seat on Swissair flight 4587, he fires up the iPad and plunges into the life his wife has lived without him. He does this without envy or concern that she’s found someone else. He has no insecurity about the speed with which Amanda may have processed his loss. She’s alive in this reality, and that is all that matters. He takes in every detail the internet reveals, reading about a new gallery showing, indulging in an interview in The Art Newspaper and another in Vulture. He reads with the fervor of an obsessed fan. Each factoid and piece of trivia confirms she’s still alive, and the feelings fill him with light.
She’s alive. He repeats this to himself over and over—an incantation—playing with the idea in his head, examining it.
She’s alive.
The mantra is a warm blanket, soothing and reaffirming. The calm eventually opens the door to a fatigue that comes slamming in. The lethargy pulls down on him, making a triumphant return after being held at bay through force of will for the past two years. Jonas stops fighting to remain awake.
She’s alive.
His mouth is fixed in a contented smile when sleep takes him.
FIVE YEARS AGO
Two months into their relationship, Jonas knew they would marry. But he never raised the subject, and neither did she. He felt no urgency to propose. For one thing, it had only been two months. All he cared about was that they were content. Amanda seemed as happy as he was. The synchronicity they enjoyed seemed like the stuff of bad movies or trashy novels, yet it was all the sweeter for that. They exchanged “I love yous” with the frequency of “thank yous.”
One night, they found themselves at a bar in the financial district. It was an upscale place with throbbing music, staccato lights, and onyx floors—the kind of establishment with mixologists instead of bartenders. The clientele mostly worked on Wall Street, letting off steam after days spent trading options or stocks or hedge fund positions. Work hard, play hard.
Jonas threaded through a sea of brokers and bankers, each of them seeming to conspire to knock into him and jostle the drinks he precariously ferried over to the two-top where Amanda was waiting. He handed over her cocktail before sitting down with his cabernet sauvignon.
Amanda lifted her drink and stared at it. Light caught the edge of the martini glass and made the rim sparkle. She talked, but Jonas couldn’t hear her over the music. The bar had a karaoke stage, and some twentysomething market analyst was mangling a Taylor Swift song.
“What?” Jonas asked, leaning forward.
Amanda raised her drink again. She pointed to it with her free hand and raised her voice above the Taylor Swift wannabe’s warbling. “What is this?”
Jonas considered the drink and answered confidently, “It’s purple.” Amanda cocked an ear. “The bartender recommended it,” he explained. “He told me what it was, but to be honest, all I understood was ‘elderberry’ and ‘infusion.’” Amanda chanced a sip. Her reaction was inscrutable. “How is it?”
“You’re right. It’s purple.”
“Here, take mine.” He swapped out his drink for hers, tried the purple concoction, and found it to be pungently floral, like drinking a spa.
Amanda glanced in the direction of the karaoke stage. The analyst was nearing the bridge. “I put us in the queue.”
“What queue?”
“For karaoke. You know ‘It Had to Be You,’ right?”
“Everyone knows Sinatra. But I don’t sing.”
“You took me to a karaoke bar . . . ,” she said, incredulous.
Jonas lifted the martini glass. “For a drink,” he said, laughter in his voice. “This place is close to our dinner reservation.”
Amanda cocked her head and wrinkled her face in a wry expression. “You lecture to dozens of students a day. You can’t handle singing in public?”
“No,” he blurted out. “I mean yes. I mean—” Amanda stared back, reveling in his predicament. “I mean that—what I mean is, I don’t sing. Like, at all.”
Amanda’s eyebrows rose, suspended by disbelief. “Who doesn’t sing?”
Jonas slowly raised his hand like a kid in school.
Amanda eyed him with mock pity. “I’m guessing you don’t dance either.”
He shrugged. “Guilty as charged.”
“Who doesn’t dance?” Before Jonas could raise his hand again, she added, “I mean why wouldn’t anyone dance?”
“The better question is, why would they? I mean, when you think about it, it’s a little silly.” The insecurity he’d felt in the run-up to their first date rushed back to him in a torrent. “Is this a deal-breaker for you?”
Amanda folded her arms defiantly over her chest and pouted. “I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone who thought singing or dancing was silly.” She pronounced “silly” as if it were two separate words.
“When you think about it,” Jonas said in his defense, “the conveyance of ideas via melodious chanting or rhythmic movement serves no useful biologic, intellectual, or societal function.”
Amanda threw her hair back and gave a dramatic, exasperated roll of her eyes. “God, you’re such a scientist.” But the way she said it seemed more compliment than criticism. “And you’re wrong.”
“I’m not.”
“First, any time you’ve found yourself tapping your foot to a song is evidence that there is an innate connection between the human body and rhythm.” Jonas opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with a finger. “Second, dance relieves stress. It conveys ideas. Some cultures—many cultures—tell stories through dance. But most importantly, it’s one of humanity’s ways of making one attractive to those of similar sexual orientation.”
“The relief of stress and the conveyance of ideas don’t relate to any humanistic imperatives, which was the point I was really trying to make.”
“Agree to disagree.”
Jonas tilted his head. Fair enough. “And your theory doesn’t withstand scrutiny because you’re attracted to me despite the fact I don’t sing.”
“Or dance,” she added with feigned disappointment. “Please don’t remind me.” She thought for a moment. “Wait. If you don’t like music, how do you know ‘It Had to Be You’?”
