ALIX MET IAN at an exquisitely appointed bistro in the West Village. All rustic industrial and so tasteful that she felt as if she had slipped into a design blog. The furniture and objects glowed with a fanatic essentialism that attempted to wordlessly explain why they were so expensive. Ian had arrived first. He was at a table by the window, nursing a hot beverage and looking more unkempt than usual. He seemed to be having a private moment, and Alix almost didn’t want to intrude, privacy being so scarce, practically illegal these days. What was troubling him? she wondered. What would she find if she could undertake surveillance of his brain, his thoughts, his mind? Of course, what she really wanted to know was what was in his heart. However, even entry into his neural synapses could not have told her that.
Could she see how his heart ached and his head hurt? He groped for thoughts but they were pulled under by waves of disturbance, guilt, regret. He was riding wave after wave and yet from the outside he appeared only slightly messier, somewhat tired, preoccupied, stressed, overworked, distracted. Not like a drowning man.
She sat and it took him a moment to notice that she was there.
Hey, said Alix. Hello.
He didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then, quietly, his head tilted: So this is middle age, he said.
I’m skipping middle age, she said, picking up the menu and squinting at it. I’m going straight to aged.
Ian’s forehead rippled and twisted in eddies of understanding.
I know what you mean, he said. Aged is more dignified.
Exactly.
But the thing about middle age is—he leaned forward—it is undignified. It just is. And you can’t skip it. I thought you could too, by not even getting to full-grown adult, but—
What? Ian are you crying? Have I ever seen you cry?
But you really don’t have a choice. We don’t. Trying to skip middle age is like trying to go straight from child to adult and not stopping at teenager.
That’s exactly what I did!
He was letting his eyes well up, not fighting it.
And how did that work out for you?
Oh, she said, sighing. You know how.
She reached her hand across the table for his.
Listen, best friend, you can tell me anything.
His whole face contorted and his eyes shut as if blocking out an image beyond horror, beyond death, something that should never have been seen. He gripped her hand. He covered his face with his other hand. This went on for a while.
Pretty undignified, huh? he said, when he had finished.
That’s okay, she said. It’s totally okay.
Thank you, he said. I really don’t deserve any of this.
Any of what?
You, your friendship, listening to me.
Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not even listening to you. That’s because you’re barely saying anything.
The waitress had hovered in their orbit for a while and by now had given up.
I can’t, he said.
The contortion again, rivers and mountains of a textured globe furrowing his brow, like the world being born.
Did you kill someone?
No.
Then I think you can tell me.
The mountains rolling into hills, then prairies. His face relaxing. His gray eyes staring into hers.
For him the whole room, the whole city, the whole world is inhabited by Poppy. She’s laughing, mocking. She’s crying, brooding. Her wide eyes. His heart a mess, a raw organ laid out on a chopping board. He can see it quiver. This is the ache of actually loving her. Not knowing how she is, if she is okay. How long can he keep this secret? He thinks about telling Alix, about showing her his heart, taking a bite out of it right in front of her. But for the same reason he doesn’t tell Poppy who he is he doesn’t tell Alix: he is afraid to hurt them. Afraid for whom?
Finally he said, I really can’t. But you’ve been very helpful. I feel better, or at least a little stronger.
Okay, I’m puzzled, but that’s okay.
Thank you.
What has gotten into you that you are so polite all of a sudden? You don’t have to thank me. I’m offended that you would thank me.
I’m sorry—
No, don’t apologize I don’t like that either. You do look better though. Hungry?
No, he said. I’m not sure I even deserve food. But you eat.
Thank you. See, your manners are contagious. Yes, well, I think I’ll order now that you’ve decreed that I am worthy of sustenance.
He smiled a little and laughed.
Good, she said. You’re laughing at me.
His eyes were tilting downward at the edges, sorrowful, handsome, helpless, but showing the tiniest signs of strength in the steadiness with which they held her gaze.
You really have been able to get away with a lot with those eyes, she said.
He nodded.
She continued: Being immature, an asshole, not growing up, acting helpless, feeling sorry for yourself, being passive-aggressive, playing dumb, not taking responsibility.
Oh go on, he said, drily.
I love you, pal, but you’re too old for it, she said as she buttered a sourdough roll. And you’re also too old for this bullshit crying. Whatever you’ve done, and I’m sure it’s pretty bad, don’t kid yourself that these tears are real. Unless, that is, you actually plan to do something about whatever the hell it is you’ve done. But of course I’m not asking what that is.
Thanks.
Miss Manners again. Does she even exist anymore? Alix held the piece of bread aloft, midbite. I feel really old this week. I keep getting ads on my computer regarding different diseases: multiple sclerosis, cancer, fibromyalgia. It must be because I’m searching for things that a person with those ailments would search for, don’t you think? What else could it be? It’s like the Internet—and by Internet I mean of course whoever or whatever is following my whereabouts on the Internet—it knows on the basis of what shoes I’m lusting over and what gossip I’m scarfing, which out-of-print authors I’m hunting down and what esoteric journals I’m pretending to read, it’s as if it knows what is going on in my body, what I’ll get sick from, when I’ll die.
When?
Well, from what. And the next thing you know it’s when.
You’re more morbid than I am.
That’s always been the case.
Thank you for trying to cheer me up.
Will you stop with the thank-yous?
I’m sorry.
That too. Enough apologizing. I don’t want polite from you.
But I am sorry.
But it isn’t helpful.
I’m sorry anyway.