It’s not hard telling a girl I don't always finish. Not anymore.
It's probably because I have a type—has experienced something horrific, or cared for someone who has, and has moved forward. It's less about the experience than it is about the integration of it.
They’re always curious why. "I don’t believe in neatly tracing a line back for most things," I say after I help her finish. They all understand, but some want more than that. I was at a friend's housewarming and this person I just met told me they remebered during therapy that at their ninth birthday they saw their dad on his phone while everyone was singing happy birthday and that's why she's so chaotic and has an anxious-avoidant attachment style.
Therapy taught me that you have to find a narrative that works for you, but that alone won’t change things; you have to do things to get better. In 9th grade, me and my friend James got bullied every day. Adam didn’t torture one of us more than the other, but next year James was the class president and I was diagnosed with depression.
The last time I couldn’t come was a week ago with Lily. It was past 1 A.M. in the hotel lobby on the last night of the Austin work summit. Most people were leaving to get some sleep before early flights back to Chicago, New York, and San Francisco mostly. I was taking requests on the piano; maybe five people were left. I finished playing Roundball Rock, singing it with the lyrics from the Jason Sudeikis/Tim Robinson SNL sketch, but only Jared and Lily caught the reference. That seemed to cue the others to leave.
Jared was a 43-year-old married man and father of three who worked in sales at the company and was using this week to make up for missing his fraternity brothers and years of snorting coke in Murray Hill bar bathrooms.
“Do you know any Ben Folds?,” Lily asked.
Jared drove his palms into his thighs and loudly expelled air out his mouth, making sure his lips vibrated at a volume heard by the front desk night staff.
“Screw that guy, I’m going home,” he growled in a Cartman voice, and proceeded to struggle toward the elevator bank hallway.
Lily moved her pursed lips and raised eyebrows to a sly grin with squinted eyes, and needled, “So?”
“Alright,” I slurred. “Ben Folds.”
She moved the to corner seat of the couch so she could watch me directly from the right edge of the keyboard.
Hands and fingers positioned.
I pressed down and moved my hands to produce the heartbroken sound of Brick.
She leaned over, flattened my hands into the keys, and looked me sincerely in the eyes, though they looked less intoxicated than a moment before.
“The abortion song?”
I felt at home in Texas.
She released, attention lingered.
I turned and reset my fingers.
Left hand pointer on middle C.
Right hand thumb—G.
Middle finger—E.
Pinky—C.
Play—
♫ Second inversion C major with a C root.
♫ A minor.
♫ E minor.
I looked to her.
“Bitches ain’t shit.”