He/She is Typing Pt. 01

ALAN: I present my new 'Rent' hopefuls.

A short line, but the inside joke is there. Within less than an hour I have her reply.

JOANNA: I heard about your permanent position! Congratulations about that!

I leave the fooling around for another time. But her follow-up comes immediately.

JOANNA: I expect a full cast by the end of the school day. Att: Your Producer.

The day continues flowing well. Very well. I'm confident and energized. Plus, it's wonderfully sunny. It's a school day and my feet are sore and my voice is hoarse, but it's still summer and it feels like it. Lessons end at 1:30 PM. I'm confident that the kids' first day was as good as mine. I relax in my car for a moment, enjoying a cool breeze wafting in through my rolled-down window. Then I wonder if I can bother her again or if I'm pushing my luck. I write my text and decide to send it.

ALAN: Done for the day. My feet are dead.

Less than ten minutes later, her reply arrives.

JOANNA: How was it??? Tell me everything.

As I write my long-winded reply, my phone starts to ring. It's her. I pick up immediately.

"So? I want to know it all."

"You couldn't wait a minute to let me finish my damn text?"

"Aww. Were you getting poetic?"

"I was gonna get all poetic on your ass."

"Leave it for next time. So, do your kids hate you already?"

"How busy are you, one to ten? I don't wanna disturb during office hours."

"Eleven. But whatever. I wanna talk to someone."

.....................................

JOANNA

Katie comes up behind me and pats me on the shoulder. Do I want to go out for a smoke? I quit over a year ago, but I do need some coffee. I get up from my seat, crack my back with a nasty noise that makes her laugh and we head down to the café across the street. Katie's only been on the paper for a couple of months, but she's already a friend. She's a total goofball and a big flirt, but can just as easily get into serious mode. I've told her a lot. She knows about my husband's affair from late last year. She knows about the texts I found on his phone, and the debacle that was making him own up to it. She knows that we came within an inch of separation. Today we somehow end up on the subject again. I tell her that "Sorry" is all I keep hearing from him, day in and day out. He was terrified that I'd leave and is extremely eager to make amends. I've told him that I wouldn't, but something has definitely broken. I'm not as invested in mending things as I should be. I suppose I'm hoping time will do my work for me. Katie agrees. Her advice is to let things breathe.

....................................

October. A full day comes to an end. My husband's home already, the two boys are downstairs having dinner. I lock the bathroom door behind me, my phone still glued to my ear. Not even here can I escape the threat of looming deadlines. I write down notes on my pad, and when I finally hang up my purse is still hanging from my arm. I shed all my extra cargo -- purse, along with my jacket and boots, and let the shower run while I answer a text from a city hall contact. My jeans come off too. While I wait for the reply, I absentmindedly run my palm through my leg, flexed over the rim of the tub. Smooth thighs, prickly shins. The mood might strike for a skirt day soon, so time to shave again. I observe my reflection in the mirror. I look nice in nothing but my cream turtleneck and socks. I've always been proud of my legs. They're full and shapely, even if a bit pale. I let my hand run slowly up my knee and across my thigh, as if it were somebody else's. There's certainly flesh to squeeze. Would they like what they feel? The mirror-staring session stretches itself out. In between texts from this important conversation that I can't postpone I observe my body from one, two, three more angles. I remove my socks and dishevel my hair, pushing my chest outwards to let my breasts complement my silhouette. I smile at myself. Yeah, I'm attractive. I've been made to doubt it recently -- that, along with an assortment of things -- and it angers me still. I have maybe five more pounds than I'd like, my cheeks are round and my ears poke out just a smidge too far; but I like what I see. I like what I am.

................................

It's the night of Halloween and I'm home alone. I'm thrilled by the prospect. My in-laws have taken the kids trick-or-treating and will be keeping them for the night. My husband is still at the office and won't be home until past midnight. It's a very rare moment of dominance over my own home.

I've been communicating with Alan for months now. We've met only a handful of times, three or four for coffee and only once for lunch. The rest of the time, our friendship has stemmed from phone conversations over Skype and daily texting. I hinted that I'd be available tonight. I'm hoping, if he can talk today, that we start early. I want to make the best of the evening.

JOANNA: Hey, dude.

ALAN: Hey! So how's it looking tonight?

JOANNA: I'm the sole mistress of this house, so how do you think it's looking?

ALAN: Sounds spooky. Who knows, maybe you're not alone.

JOANNA: Maybe. It's Halloween after all.

ALAN: Can you talk for a bit before you get murdered?

JOANNA: I can.

"Hey there," he says once I answer his Skype call. It's his go-to greeting. Hey there, hey there. I like hearing it.

"Now you actually have me worried about some knife wielder in my kitchen, asshole."

"You did tell me you have a gun in your house."

"It's my husband's. And I'm not going near that shit, it's scarier than the knife killer."

"You can also judo the killer to death." He's referring to my red belt attained in my teeny bopper years. One of many biographical details that I've shared.

"See, I don't mind guns," he continues. "I shot one once at a shooting range. It was pretty fun."

"Yeah? Is it all it's cracked up to be?"

"Absolutely. Let's go tomorrow."

"How about you go and I wait in the parking lot."

"Sweet. It's a date."

"No, the date is tonight," I say. "I really need this. You had mentioned something about a movie..."

He laughs.

"I was kind of joking about that one. Did you actually want to?"

"Of course, it sounded fun!"

"Ok. I'll watch a movie with you."

We settle on a horror film, appropriate for this of all days. One of the Paranormal Activity movies, which we both access on Netflix and start playing at the same time. He eventually suggests a drinking game. He also means this as a joke, but I turn it real. Soon I have my bottle of tequila on the couch next to me. He has a six-pack of Zima, which I make fun of. There are occasional interruptions to deal with on my end, kids at the door trick-or-treating. We turn every new ring into another reason to take a shot of our respective brand of booze, which adds to my being more and more drunk every new time I open my door. But the kids in costumes seem fine with the extra happy lady giving them candy. Watching the film with Alan easily turns it into a comedy. I laugh so much my face starts to hurt. This evening is everything I needed. I put myself on video.

"Hey."

"Hm? Oh, there you are," he says.

I give him the finger. My turn to make him laugh.

"Hey, I see someone behind you," he says.

"Fuck you. No you don't."

I set the phone up against a cushion on the couch. I can still hear him from there and he can see me lying on my leather beanbag.

"Wanna change the movie?" he asks. "Not that this is bad or anything. But I don't even know what's happening anymore."

"That's because you're yammering over the film," I say. As if I would've had it any other way. "I chose us a perfectly good Halloween movie. You'll finish it and like it."

"All I can think is, that house is nice. I want to live there. I wouldn't mind the demon."

"Aww, but you'd miss your roomies. Dude, I am cooking here." I'm still wearing my clothes from the day, a black woolen sweater with jeans. I started my call with Alan before I could even change.

"You know what I've wanted to watch for a while now? The Lion King." It's the kind of dorky thing he'll say on occasion that makes me wonder whether he's serious or not. Tonight it's funnier than usual, tipsy the way I am. I laugh as I fan myself with the cover of a coffee table book about extreme sports in South America.

"I. AM. HOT. Did I mention that I'm gonna melt? I want to take off my sweater, but the leather of the beanbag will stick to my skin and it'll feel all gross."

"Just take off the sweater."

"I don't want to feel like a human pineapple."

"I like pineapples," he says.

I've undone my button fly and am now lifting my butt from the beanbag so I can slide my jeans down my hips. I'm vaguely aware of his silence as I do it. I peel them off my legs and feel delighted by the cool air on my skin. The decision makes perfect sense to me, I simply don't question it. Any guilt is buried deep within, safely out of sight. It's the biggest rush I could have right now, moving around on my beanbag knowing I'm giving Alan something to look at. My sweater goes way past my waist and covers enough, but my bare legs are in full view. I flex them, raise them, stretch them. Alan doesn't let the gesture intimidate him. The conversation continues, as does the laughing. The drinking does stop, however. I don't need any more.

"This movie fucking sucks," he declares finally.

"We're not watching The Lion King. Get over it."

"Ooh, have you seen videos of the Broadway show? It's looking so awesome."

"What Broadway show?"

"The Lion King!"

"Tell you what, I'll take you to that show if you shut your mouth and watch this movie till the end with me."

"Deal. But you'll have to wear pants."

..............................................................................

By mid-November I'm way past my brief shame-and-regret stage. Alan hasn't required me to apologize or to even address our drunken little evening. And we keep communicating, exchanging texts every other day. No matter where the conversation goes, we find a million things to say. We laugh constantly, at and with each other. I've had lunch with him once again since. I honked his nose and squeezed his cheeks. He briefly touched my ear. He's reserved on that aspect, but I'm a toucher with all my friends. I know there'll be more flirting, in some instances more overtly than others. That's just where things naturally go with him. He plays the game well and I'm unable to deprive myself of that fun.

Today I'm having my hair straightened. I always have second thoughts about it. My round face is to blame. But today my confidence is on a high and I love the final result. At home, my husband compliments me. Away from the kids, he makes a big deal about it, touches it, touches me. He's making the effort to bring things back to normal, which I appreciate and nurture within the realms of possibility. At times he tries hard; at others, he's quietly resentful of the small ways in which I've changed and the private space I've created for myself, which wasn't there before.

Alan's text arrives in the evening. I sent him a self-deprecating picture right after leaving the hair salon.

ALAN: Do I know you?

I smile at the dumb joke. In its own way, it's the perfect thing to say.

.................................................

ALAN

It's just hanging in the air; a reminder of what we allowed ourselves to do, once, when the elements aligned perfectly in a way they probably won't again. Booze or no booze. I didn't take it as a promise of anything, as I'm sure that she wouldn't want me to. The fact that the mutual attraction is there, close enough to the surface, is all the thrill I could ask for. I don't expect more. My colleagues would judge me if they knew that's where my eye is, and that's a bunch of people where I want to continue fitting in. I should be able to be as professional as they are. I'm now a full-time school teacher; a rent-paying adult, sensible, reliable with boundaries.

Nonetheless, the memory of a smiling Joanna on my phone screen -- her curvy legs bare, her arms behind her head -- has been a recurring visit. Every morning and every evening, I take the fantasy as far as I can in my mind. There I can do whatever I want.

..............................................

Sergio and I go out for drinks with his new girlfriend's posse. Sergio is one of my two roommates and a fellow teacher at my school. Hiranur, a Turkish IT engineer and our third rent-payer, politely declines to come along. I initially had a mind to do the same, seeing as how I would be the only new guy in the group. But Sergio gets pushy about me going, and his cool girlfriend Dana does too.

I have a blast, though. There's a girl here, Helen, Dana's friend. We end up gravitating towards each other. Long black hair and a nose piercing. There's a name that keeps getting mentioned -- a recent ex-boyfriend, I gather -- that's the butt of inside jokes between Helen and Dana. He'd hate to see her having fun tonight, apparently, and the evening is designed partly as an affront to the guy. I don't mind it. Vanessa and I dance and do shots. She touches me often. She seemed ditzy at first but there's cleverness in her sense of humor. I end up liking her more than I meant to. There are two or three moments where I could take the plunge and risk a kiss, but I don't. My reasoning is that if I do, I'd be obligated to stay longer, and I want to leave early. It's the kind of innocuous decision that I can passively judge myself for, but also allow.

When the most sober guy in the group offers a ride to the people leaving early, I join in. I leave the club before anyone can attempt to get me to stay. Sergio will be spending the night at Dana's, so he wouldn't be able to drive me back anyway. I'm pretty tipsy at first, but I feel more and more sober the closer we get to my apartment. At some point I even end up regretting leaving. But I'm hoping to hear from Joanna.

We haven't written to each other in three days. She's been busy, and whenever her communication grows thin I contemplate the possibility that she's ready to gain distance. Then she'll usually break her silence with a sudden explosion of texts that update me on everything that's been going on, the difficult people, the crazy anecdotes. And she'll squeeze me for every detail on how I'm doing, and I'll entertain her with one of my zillion classroom stories. Everything works on her, everything makes her laugh. I can tell she likes it when I drop her a line right in the middle of her a stressful silent period, but this time I chose to wait until she sends a sign first. I'm insecure about overstaying my welcome.

Hiranur is working quietly in his room. I let him know I'm home. My speech, which was close to slurred when I left the club, is now fully back to normal. I close my bedroom door and crash on the bed. I draw my phone from my pocket and, for the first time in the evening, check to see if Joanna has written. I see the (1) inside the little green circle next to the profile picture of her goofing off with her sons, which always makes me smile, tonight harder than usual.

JOANNA: Hey. Just wondering if you're alive. If so, I hope you're having the best Friday night. I've finally finished a project that's been sucking every ounce of blood out of me, but now it's finally time to get reacquainted with this thing called human contact. I'm a dreadful and sucky friend, I know. Sorry.

She wrote five hours ago. I think of leaving my reply for tomorrow, as I'm sure she's asleep. But my fingers act on their own accord.

ALAN: I am. So glad you are too. Alive, I mean.

Mere seconds later, I get the "Seen" notice. She's still up. I hope I didn't wake her.

JOANNA: I was starting to become worried. I can't even tell you how nice it is to hear from you.

ALAN: It's so nice to hear from you too.

JOANNA: Were you going to bed?

ALAN: I just arrived from being out drinking with Sergio and some friends.

JOANNA: Ugh, how fun. I would give a toe to go drinking with buddies. Did you get shitfaced?

ALAN: I did. I even fought with some dudes. Messed their faces up real bad.

JOANNA: You're such a man. Did you quote lines from The Lion King as you beat them up?

ALAN: I am not to be messed with.

JOANNA: Who else was there?

ALAN: Some of Dana's friends.

JOANNA: I love hearing about this kind of stuff. I need someone to live vicariously through. And I like

imagining you there. Doing your best attempts at dancing.

ALAN: Hey.

JOANNA: Hehe.

ALAN: There was relatively little staring and pointing. I did a good job. Didn't step on a single toe.

JOANNA: I'd like to be drunk too. We need to do another drinking game soon.

ALAN: I'm for it. I've got my Zimas waiting. Otherwise known by you as "what pussies drink", if I recall correctly.

A short period of silence follows, which she ends with:

JOANNA: I've really missed you.

ALAN: I did too. I'm sorry if I woke you. I was gonna wait until tomorrow to get back to you.

JOANNA: I'm glad you didn't.

ALAN: Do you wanna talk for a little bit?

JOANNA: Yes. Hold on.

A few minutes later, her call comes through.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How are you still awake?" I ask.

"Bastian needed some cuddling after a little night terror episode. Then I just couldn't sleep after that. As exhausted as I am, if you can believe it. Netflix has been my loyal bro since."

We talk for fifteen minutes; thirty; close to an hour. It's 1 AM already but we've turned this into one of our regular phone sessions. She sounds different. Maybe it's because she has to talk low. Then...

"I see you..."

I look at my phone and see that she's put herself on camera. I feel a rush of happiness at the sight of her face.

"Creeper," I say. "How long have you been spying?"

"Uh, you can see me, I can't see you."

"Hehe. Right."

Her ochre-colored hair has developed volume again and falls in wavy locks over one side of her face. She's in bed, lying on her side, wearing a blue t-shirt with Donald Duck on it.

"I want to see how drunk you look," she says.

When my face shows up on a side of my screen, a wide smile spreads on her face.

"Man, I need to trim that beard."

"Nah. It looks good."

"You look good," I retort. The subdued alcohol in my bloodstream picks this moment to kick in.

She smiles at me silently. I can feel it coming before it hits.

"What else do you want to see?" she asks in what's almost a whisper.

Sheer excitement pumps through my veins. The movie-watching session from weeks ago, almost mythologized in my mind, comes rushing back into the present and into reality again. The feelings of it; the certainty that she's open to me, willing to let me be something that she wouldn't allow anyone else.

The question's an easy one to answer.

"Your legs again."

She says nothing and for a split second I worry that I misread it all. The image on my screen shifts and shakes around for a moment and I hear rustling. When it finally settles, it's the same angle as before, but she's sporting a new type of smile. Her camera pans downwards and I see that she's bared her legs. Her left one folded over the right one below. I can see blue panties this time, and a bit of her belly, as the Donald Duck t-shirt is raised a few inches above her waist. This is moving at top speed and beyond my control, but I'm fine with that.