Sarah Gerard - Binary Star

Last night, I washed down 20 milligrams of Adderall with two Red Bulls. At seven o’clock this morning, I ate two Hydroxycuts and dressed for class. On the way there, I ate an apple and drank 24 ounces of coffee. I’m sitting in the front row because this is where I was told to sit. I can’t feel my body in my chair. The fluorescent lights buzz against the walls, which seem to be full of water. My professor makes eye contact with me when I first arrive, but then doesn’t look at me for the rest of the class. I take twenty pages of notes in two hours. I count them. I write neatly, as small as I can, but my hand shakes and sometimes I lose control of the line.

— The white dwarf is supported against collapse by degeneracy pressure.

John texts me.

Second draft of the manifesto.

I’m in class.

— The temperature rises within a white dwarf accreting matter from its companion.

— It doesn’t expand and cool.

I’ll send it to you now. Read it when you can.

I will.

— The star increases in temperature, not in pressure.

You’re in, aren’t you?

Of course. I want to help.

— Carbon fusion in the core reignites — runaway process that feeds on itself.

As I’m leaving, my professor pulls me aside.

You slipped a little on the last test.

I know. I didn’t have time to study.

I realize I’m grinding my jaw and stop. My forehead tenses. I relax it.

Well, get the notes from someone next time.

I will.

You only have one more absence this semester.

I won’t miss any more class.

He smiles. He’s about to make a joke.

And don’t sit in the back. It’s like you’re hiding something.

To be honest, I have a thyroid condition. It was just diagnosed. That’s why I’ve missed classes.

I’ve said too much already.

So, if you notice me losing weight, you’ll know that’s why.

He looks at me for a long time. He knows I’m lying.

I haven’t noticed, yet, but I’ll keep that in mind. I’m sorry about your condition.

It’s under control.

We remain standing mutely in the doorway.

If you ever need to see me, you know where to find me.

Thank you.

My downstairs neighbor’s dog barks until five in the morning the night we return to New York. John plans to leave at eight to drive back to Chicago. He takes his Seroquel at midnight and asks me to wake him at seven to say a proper goodbye. I’m awake for most of the night. I’m awake when my alarm goes off. He’s sluggish and falls asleep on the red futon while I’m in the bathroom. I make coffee and try to convince him to sleep more, but he still drives away. I watch from the sidewalk and feel a profound absence.

He doesn’t call from the road and when I call him, he doesn’t answer. I call twenty times. I email. I text. I call Michele.

Have you seen John?

She hasn’t.

He should have been back tonight.

He’ll call you when he’s back, I’m sure.

I picture him driving around in circles. He’s lost.

I picture him overturned in a ditch.

The next morning, he calls to say he’s sorry, that he pulled off in Ohio and woke up ten hours later in his car.

I was in the middle of nowhere. So many stars. Like driving through North Dakota.

I told you to stay here and sleep.

I’m home now.

I thought you were dead.

Don’t be dramatic.

That night, he gets drunk by himself and falls asleep in the bushes outside his apartment. His neighbor wakes him at six in the morning, when he goes out to get his newspaper. John has cuts and bruises on his face that he doesn’t remember getting in a fight, though the patterns suggest someone hit him very hard. I tell him to go to the hospital and get x-rayed, but he thinks it’s unnecessary.

Michele thinks he’s fine.

You have an atmosphere. I have an atmosphere.

You stand on one side of the bed and I stand on the other and you tell me what you think of my clothing. You leave Dog in the crate all day while you sleep. She has to pee. She’s an animal, John.

Say you can’t help it, but maybe consider you own her.

Mornings feel like paper.

A morning is continuous. You don’t realize it if you sleep when it’s dark. You wake suddenly in the light and there is division between one time and another.

I tell you now: There’s no division. You have more past than future? No, you don’t. You have neither.

You have only the present.

It is cruel to own an animal: not vegan.

I stand at the foot of your bed and talk like a child. I pulse against the cock you can’t use.

You treat me like a dog.

This is the only way you can do it. This is the only way you will do it.

That was the best sex we’ve ever had and you thought it was an insult.

It pays to be unspecific.

It’s true that I miss you. It’s true that I wish you were here. I follow you endlessly reaching and never reach you. You follow behind me.

We need to be apart to stay together. We need to be alone, both of us, to be together.

You need to get me alone.

For my own stupid, ugly, selfish reasons.

For my petty, shallow, overblown reasons.

Supernova. Self-worth: unreason: supernova.

Please be unreasonable. I am unreasonable. You’re a child. I’m a child. I’m her only, perfect, stupid, worthless child who can’t love.

Yes, Mom, I’m fine.

I’m lying.

Help me, please.

Know what I won’t say.

Know me better.

Better, yes.

I want to be better.

I sit on the red futon you turned to ash. I lick the ash and this is the only thing I lick.

I lick my lips.

I lick an ice cube popsicle.

I freeze-dry myself onto any hard surface: preservation. This is what starvation feels like.

Please don’t look at me like that.

Please don’t touch me. I’ll explode.

Objectified? Disrespected?

No.

No.

This is what I want. I just want.

To cling to you.

To cling to your shoe.

What about the fish that die for rubber?

Follow your star to the dark horizon.

Redshift.

I just want all of you.

In the spring, I fly to Chicago because it’s my turn. We’ve been apart for a month. My flight lands early, so I take my time getting to the baggage claim, and walk through the duty-free Hallmark store and Hudson News. I buy a Chicago snow globe for ten dollars even though I have no one to give it to. While I’m paying for it, I buy an extra pack of Orbit gum and a sugar-free Red Bull just because.

During our time apart, John registered for his summer class and we began planning what will happen in May. It’s now early March. I’m surprised by his uncharacteristic show of initiative but I don’t say so. I don’t want to embarrass him.

In the car, I say that I want to go to the Adler Planetarium. John agrees, but instead we stay in and order Chinese food. I throw it up in the bathroom while John sits on the leather couch watching a documentary about the Zapatistas and drinking a case of Corona. I come out and stop by the bedroom, take two Hydroxycut from my purse, and drink them down with the broth from the vegetable soup without him noticing. I break open a fortune cookie but don’t eat it. The fortune reads, A journey of 1,000 miles begins with one step. I show it to John. He doesn’t care and he doesn’t suspect anything.

We finish the documentary and he turns off the TV and tries to remove my shirt. At first I resist, but he tries again and I don’t want him to feel rejected. We kiss and he goes down on me. I try to enjoy it.