SEWANEE:
Of what?
BROCK:
Sigh. How much time ya got?
SEWANEE:
About a finger’s worth of vodka.
BROCK:
I was a fearless boy who became a fearful man.
There. Nostrovia.
SEWANEE:
Ennnhhh I don’t shoot vodka. If you want me to finish this, I’m going to need a little more than that.
BROCK:
K. I’ll skip to the end.
When the world’s your oyster? And you gobble it up? There’s nothing worse than getting food poisoning. Just the sight of one after that makes you sick.
（I promise I’m a better songwriter than this analogy would suggest） SEWANEE:
But if you never open another oyster, you’ll miss the pearls.
BROCK:
Yeah. Well.
For the record, I hate talking about this.
SEWANEE:
Brb gonna go post on Facebook that Brock McNight is afraid of eating oysters.
BROCK:
I will completely understand if you never want to talk to me again.
SEWANEE:
R U kidding? I’m making popcorn.
BROCK:
Okay, enough about me. What’s your Another Time?
Sewanee sat back and sipped her vodka. How would she even begin? Was she ready to tell her story? To open herself up like that?
Maybe she could at least address the fear. Tell him she knew something about life getting pulled out from under you. Maybe use the awful oyster metaphor. At least let him know how much she understood his struggle. Talk straight, one ruination to another.
But she didn’t want to.
She wanted to talk about songwriting and vodka and sexual innuendos.
And where he lived.
And how old he was.
And what he did for fun.
And did he have hair?
Was he tall? He sounded large, but not necessarily tall. Which was fine. She didn’t care. Why would she? Who was she to care about such things?
It was novel, having this strong a connection with someone she’d never seen. Who’d never seen her. Then again, maybe that’s what made it possible. Would seeing each other, meeting each other face to face, fracture the relationship they’d built? He would probably say a little relationship was safer and he’d be right.
Which was why, she realized, she could identify with Brock much more than with someone like Nick.
Nick.
The man who always went ’round the bend, who would look into the well even if it meant crushing disappointment. Nick was who she wished she were; Brock was much closer to who she actually was.
It was as if she had been staring at a painting and foreground-Nick and background-Brock had switched. When had that happened?
Her phone lit up.
BROCK:
You’re not literally making popcorn?
SEWANEE:
Ha no, sorry. Thinking about a worthy answer.
BROCK:
Take your time. I took mine.
Actually, no. I totally forgot. I have rehearsal.
SEWANEE:
Oh!
BROCK:
I’m so sorry.
SEWANEE:
No, no it’s okay! Trust me.
BROCK:
God my brain these days!
SEWANEE:
No listen I dodged a bullet here.
BROCK:
Grrr. I don’t want to leave this. It’s important.
SEWANEE:
No, your rehearsal is important. It’s not like you wanted to know why grass is green. My story can wait.
BROCK:
I know that one! Chlorophyll! TBC!
FRIDAY. HAPPY HOUR. Seasons.
Sewanee signed in at the front desk, as she did almost every Friday. But this time, Adaku joined her.
Adaku was in self-imposed lockdown as she trained for the Lysistrata-in-the-jungle movie （which was titled The Originator, for reasons Sewanee did not understand）， and when she’d texted last night I NEED TO GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, Sewanee had suggested she join her at Seasons and they could have dinner after.
They headed to Blah’s room to rouse her. “Ten bucks says she’ll be on the left side of the couch, two pillows behind her, headphones on her head, an audiobook playing, fast asleep.” They were chuckling as they entered Blah’s room and found her exactly as Sewanee had predicted.
She opened her eyes, instinctively sensing their presence. “Dollface! What are you doing here? And who is this?”
“Blah, I’m Adaku. I don’t know if you remember me, but I–”
“Of course I remember you! Who could forget that smile?”
Adaku bent over to give Blah a hug. “It’s so great to see you again.”
Sewanee couldn’t be sure whether Blah recognized Adaku or not, but she supposed it didn’t matter. “It’s Friday!” She finger-combed the hair on the back of Blah’s head. “What do you say we get ourselves together and head down to happy hour?”