BTW:?I have two life lines. They meet in the middle, cross, and then wrap around my wrist. I have the conjurer triangle on my palm, which is extremely rare. I can conjure almost anything.
OM:?Can you conjure me a croissant? I’m starving and I forgot to bring lunch.
BTW:?I’m currently trying to conjure several hundred thousand dollars for myself.
OM:?How’s that going?
BTW:?We’ll see.
OM:?Let’s talk about what’s going on with your skin.
BTW:?I’ve told you twenty times. My aging process is reversing.
OM:?You’re fifty-two, correct?
BTW:?On paper, yes. But my wrinkles are disappearing—that’s why I have these little scabs on my face—and the rest of my scars are disappearing, including my belly button.
OM:?Oh? Where is your belly button off to?
BTW:?It’s vanishing entirely. That wound is finally healing. And some of my hair is falling out to make room for new hair. You should feel how soft it is. Here, feel.
OM:?It’s quite soft.
BTW:?My penis is also reverting to its original state.
OM:?Meaning…？
BTW:?My foreskin is growing back.
OM:?I’m afraid that’s not possible.
BTW:?Why?
OM: ?I hate to be the one to tell you, but it sounds like middle age. The penis shrinks, or become smaller in size and paler in color—
BTW:?I know my own body. Here, can I just show you? Do you mind?
OM:?[WHISTLES]
BTW:?Right? See what I mean?
OM:?You’re well-endowed, I’ll give you that, but the head is rather… red, isn’t it?
Greta had imagined a pig in a blanket left overnight in a chafing dish.
OM:?Are you still sleeping with Mr. Lilywhite?
BTW:?God, no.
OM:?I’m sorry to hear that. I liked how that relationship was developing for you.
BTW:?Do you mind if I lie down?
OM:?Please do. If you want, close your eyes and we’ll have a minute or two of fire breath.
[FIRE-BREATHING]
BTW:?How about a quick gong bath before I leave?
OM:?It would be my great priv.
[GONG BATH]
Yes, Om had a goddamn gong in his office. Greta had never seen it because she had yet to set foot in there, but apparently, the gong was quite large and shiny. The first time he’d mentioned it to a client, he’d said, “I waxed my gong for you, in case you wanted a sound bath at the end of our session,” which Greta had transcribed as “I waxed my dong for you.” Om had texted a few days later: “It’s gong, honey, not dong,” a phrase Greta now repeated to herself at random.
In any case, Om loved to bathe BTW with his gong—and Greta, by extension—but it felt more like being drowned. Not by a rough sea, but by a stranger’s hand holding your head underwater. He really went to town on the thing, banging the crap out of it until you couldn’t hear yourself think. In this way, your ego was truly eradicated and you realized the present was all you—
“Sorry I’m late,” Om said suddenly.
He was a wearing a white fishnet tank top, a chunky cardigan, and white harem pants. Greta watched him give each of his clients a subtle nod. The ortolan-eater gazed at Om with open affection, as if he wanted to give Om a belly rub. KPM simply returned Om’s nod, but BTW looked like he might approach and start blabbing.
“Mind if we sit closer to the window?” Om asked quickly.
“Not at all,” Greta said.
They relocated to another table. The barista, who used to date Olin Patterson, who used to date Betsy Hanna, the famous chef who was now engaged to Peter Green, who had a kid with Punk Rock Charlotte, a former skank who used to fuck the drummer for the Dead Kennedys but was now an herbalist, finally delivered Greta’s Americano, along with Om’s usual. Greta had never been introduced to the barista or any of the others. She only knew these things because she lived with Sabine.
“So, I want to talk to you about FEW,” Om said. “Have you finished her file?”
“I emailed you the transcript before I left my house,” Greta said.
“Very good,” Om said. “I’m sending you another file, but it contains really sensitive—and possibly triggering—information, so I wanted to check in with you, make sure you’re okay with everything.”
“You’re worried I’ll be triggered?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Because I’m a woman?”
“No,” he said slowly. “Because you’re human. Wait—you are human, correct? You’re not a bot? Can you prick your finger real quick, so I can see if blood—”
“Dude,” Greta said.
She was bleeding right now, as a matter of fact, and imagined removing her tampon and dunking it in Om’s steamed milk with turmeric.
He leaned toward her. “She’s uncomfortable talking about it,” he said, “but she was the victim of a very violent crime, and she discusses certain graphic and upsetting details.”
“I’ve transcribed rape before,” Greta said.
“Yes, I know,” Om said. “But this crime was extremely violent, and her abuser is being released from prison—here in Hudson—and his name is mentioned. I doubt you know him, but who knows, maybe you do. Maybe you’ll run into him next week or the week after. Or maybe you’ll run into her. I just want to make sure you can handle this.”
Greta nodded gravely.
“And I hope you continue to honor the agreement you signed.”
She’d been dishonoring the agreement for weeks, but only with Sabine.
“I would’ve transcribed these files myself, but I don’t know how to type,” said Om, without embarrassment. “How’s it been lately? The transcribing?”
“I’m glad you asked,” Greta said. “What’s often missing in these transcripts—in my opinion—is the person’s pain. Because, well, the pain is rarely in the actual words, which nine times out of ten are imprecise, or the wrong words altogether. People are almost never articulate about their pain, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Their pain can only really be felt in the pauses, which aren’t included in the transcript. So, I’m wondering if you’ll allow me to type something like ‘LONG, BEREAVED PAUSE DURING WHICH CLIENT STRUGGLES TO SWALLOW,’ or something to that effect.”
Om blinked at her. “You want to transcribe… silence?”
“It’ll make the transcript more accurate,” Greta said. “Or, in any case, more complete.”
“Hm,” Om said. “But your job is to transcribe, not describe. So, maybe don’t be so descriptive?”
“Fine,” Greta said.
“How’s your love life?” Om asked. “Are you dating?”
Greta shook her head.
“You’ll meet someone next month,” Om said.
“Really? Why’s that?”
“You know,” Om said. “January.”
“New Year’s Eve?”
“Yes, and the mad rush to pair up before winter,” Om said. “You’ll see.”
* * *
GRETA WASN’T READY TO PAIR UP, but she wouldn’t have minded getting a piece. Everyone in town seemed to take turns with one another, as if stranded on a private fuck island, and Greta had never seen so many unusual and unlikely couples. Old with young, rich with poor, drunk with sober, beautiful with grotesque. She’d heard Hudson described as a college town without a college, or summer camp for adults, but it seemed more like a small community of expats. Everyone behaved as if they’d been banished from their native country, or had simply withdrawn allegiance, or were on the lam, and now that they were all living abroad, they bonded with people they never would’ve ended up with back home.