Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [35]
She doesn’t say anything.
“We never got to finish our conversation. My notes are incomplete, and I’d love to know your story.”
“I already told the box,” she says.
“You told the box—you mean you told your story to the computer?”
No response.
“My turn to tell a kissing story,” I say.
I know Grandma’s not really listening. But I’m trying to pass the time, so I start talking about Pauline. Maybe I’m fueled by a memory of past talks with Grandma—her genuine interest, deep visceral laughter, a feeling she gave me that my decisions always made complete sense.
“Pauline, my boss, she listens like you do,” I mutter. “She leaves me satisfied, like comfort food.”
“Are you telling me a story or eating?”
I laugh. “Thank you for calling me out on my nonsensical simile.”
She looks at me.
“We met a year ago on a hike organized by mutual friends,” I continue.
“You’re smiling, Nathaniel.”
I tell Grandma that Pauline and I split off from the rest of the group and before I knew it, we had walked two hours and talked. On the way back to the cabin, Pauline stopped and pointed. Frozen ten yards in front of us was a deer, paralyzed. Then it did something I wouldn’t have predicted in a million years. It took a step toward Pauline, then another. When it was three feet from her it stopped, and sniffed the air. And then it lowered its head and started chomping on grass.
“You are beloved by animals and you look good in shorts,” I whispered to Pauline.
The deer didn’t even look up before bolting.
“You just look good in shorts,” Pauline said.
We both cleared our throats. On the way back to the car, I had the weirdest thought: if I see another deer tonight, I’ll ask her out. I didn’t and I wound up burying my urges and working for Pauline.
“What kind of bullshit abdication was it to leave my fate to a deer?” I say to Grandma.
“You are angry.”
I rub my hand on my forehead. “I’m confused. I went to see a shrink, a few months ago, just once.”
I tell Grandma what I haven’t told anyone else. I gave this psychotherapist my dating history since med school, starting with Annie. Next came Erin, who split up with me after I left her brother’s wedding ceremony to file a breaking story about lead-tainted Chinese dog bones killing pooches. Good story, bad timing. Erin said I despised any celebration of permanence.
Each relationship grew progressively shorter, mostly ended by me.
“At this point, I can meet someone at a party or on a hike, fall for her and split up before I’ve asked her out,” I tell Grandma.
“I think you’d like talking to the box,” she says.
“I am by career and emotion a journalist. I write short stories, complete them, move on to another subject. I can’t even commit to an idea, a subject matter, let alone a life partner.”
I’d been looking straight ahead but I turn to her. “The obvious conclusion is that I hate commitment. But what’s truer is that I love endings.”
“Is something coming to an end?”
“I love the sense of freedom that comes from being finished, however momentarily. I relish the moment I become free.”
“I think you’d enjoy talking to the box,” Grandma repeats.
“What box?”
“The computer. It listens to you all day, even if you get boring or no one wants to hear your story.”
I laugh. “Probably costs less than a shrink.”
“I don’t think you usually talk this much,” she says. “It’s nice.”
I sigh. For some reason, I’d expected Grandma to dole out wisdom or comfort, like she used to.
“Can you tell me how I can get as big a rush out of being with one person as I can from the moment I become free?”
Grandma responds: “Our generation liked mixed drinks, or beer. Yours seems to like mobile phones.”
I smile. Lane offers wisdom after all. Maybe my problem is technology. The Internet age exacerbates my frenetic characteristics. Information, ideas, emotions flit in and out—a veritable blog of a world with constant updates and no time to stand still. My head and gut on a swivel. My thoughts, emotions, and memories more fleeting than ever. The