Jowita Bydlowska - Guy

“We were asking her too many questions about what type of fuck you are,” the brunette says.

“Em!”

The brunette’s dark eyes in the mirror narrow slightly. Dolores told me that she and Em are best friends.

Em doesn’t seem to have any of Dolores’ and Kelly’s bubbliness; she looks like she is only capable of scowling. I know women in their thirties whose lips have a permanent downward skew from this kind of repeated muscle arrangement. You find out later, face to face on a pillow, they used to be Goths or drug addicts or runaways – or all three – in their younger years. Dissatisfaction takes its toll. I predict Em’s face will to go the downward route. Dolores had been unable to explain what she and Em have in common other than that they grew up together. Em berates her, tells her to exercise. Women are often friends with other women they hate. I don’t know why.

“Don’t mind her. Em’s just hormonal,” says Kelly. “And she’s breaking up with her boyfriend when she gets back, so –”

Em rolls her eyes. “Shut it, Kels.”

“Well, you are.”

“Why is that?” I say.

“Because he doesn’t deserve her?” Dolores’ voice is small.

“Did he cheat on you?” I don’t look in the mirror.

Kelly sighs, “No. He’s just –”

“He’s weak,” Em says, and I wonder what that means to her. But I’m not really interested in finding out; I’d prefer to be talking about Charlie’s potential hit song, so I gently bring us back to that topic, ask what they think again.

“I thought it was great. I’d buy it for sure. I love the singing in it too, but it’s different than their usual stuff. I can’t tell with Korean,” says Kelly.

“Japanese. Her name is Yumiko,” Dolores says in an offended tone.

“It doesn’t work for me,” Em says. I look in the mirror again but she’s looking down. Probably texting.

Dolores says nothing. She must be dealing with a lot of big feelings right now.

After everyone unloads and proceeds toward the bus station, the two other girls walk ahead of us, faster, to give me and Dolores some space. Dolores hands me a letter, which I’m sure contains fifteen different suggestions on how to contact her, as well as some declarations of love and devotion. It’s not the first letter like this I’ve received.

Dolores throws her arms around my neck. This time, I kiss her properly, with tongue. Then Em or Kelly pulls her away and they all get on the bus and I wave once and walk away, completely exhausted by it all.

In the letter, there’s some confusing poem about love – something about the river Kiang and meeting at Cho-fu-Sa.

There’s a Twitter handle, Facebook account, even a LinkedIn address carefully handwritten, which I appreciate more than anything – it’s impossible to find anyone under the age of twenty who is able to handwrite anymore.

For my part, I’ve given Dolores a printout with numbers and email addresses that are missing one crucial letter or have the number one instead of a seven and so on.

I know that it’s almost impossible to hide in the world anymore, and that young women like Dolores make online stalking their pastime, but it’s relatively hard to find me out there. Besides, even plain girls who meet princes get distracted – by math, by a boy with a guitar, by becoming passionate about saving pets, etcetera.

I make a nice memory, but my silence makes it quickly obvious that they were right about their instincts that it was too good to be true. And the fake numbers and so on prove it. There was no mistake.

Furthermore, after years of being “accidentally” found online and a few times in real life by wannabe rock stars, I have some firewalls in place. I have fake Facebook profiles. I have hired a student from Mexico to monitor my social media presence and insert content into places where I supposedly hang out. He links to interesting articles on Facebook that are never about politics, religion or sex. He comments on other people’s non-sexual, apolitical, non-religious posts – usually animals and babies and optical illusions. Simple pronouncements such as Excellent! I don’t mind the brevity – his English is limited; the brevity is perfect. Occasionally he posts about something serious, like the environment – everybody loves the environment – or healthy eating (but nothing controversial, like gluten). I send him the links to articles.

On my actual Facebook account, I only post pictures of the meals I make if I’m particularly proud of them. Barely any comments. Recently I’ve asked the student from Mexico to ask other students from Mexico for comments on these photos. It’s bizarre to me that nobody cares about beautifully prepared food.

I have no idea what memory Dolores will leave. For now, all I’ve got of her is the creamy belly and round back, the red marks from her tight clothes, the open-mouthed look, the curl on her neck when she pulled her hair into a ponytail. The smell of coconut and men’s deodorant. There’s also the windmill tongue and her shuffle-walk.

AFTER I SLEEP FOR TWELVE HOURS AND WAKE UP FEELING five years younger, I sit down with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and devise a workout plan for the next few weeks. My workout chaos persists. It’s time to fix that.

I open a new document and start typing the number of reps and suggested successions that’ll let me get back on track. I consider calling my former personal trainer to ask him about high-interval training. I wonder if it could be an improvement on my cardio routine.

I quickly change my mind about calling him. It’s possible he’s not with his girlfriend anymore, but if he is, who knows what kinds of things have been confessed? There was only that one time. It was quick, efficient, exactly like a workout. It was in their apartment with extremely white walls, the gym-like smell of disinfectant in the air. It involved about forty push-ups on my part, and after I got dressed, I ran an impressive sprint worthy of high-interval training because my personal trainer, her boyfriend, was buzzing the intercom downstairs.

It was stupid of me. He was a very good personal trainer.

After I’m done typing out my workout plan, I move on to food. I check my Excel files for detailed menus worked out by the nutritionist I hired last year. Our relationship is the most perfect relationship in my life: he emails me the plans every quarter and I enter my credit card number.

There are at least four weeks of meals left. I phone my food-delivery guy and read him my new grocery list over the phone. He no longer snickers about the food items I ask for or tries to tell me about his life involving pickup trucks and blonds. Once he finally realized I don’t care, our relationship became almost perfect: me reading out the ingredients and amounts, and him not saying anything until I say, “That is all.”

I would love to be able to do this with Gloria one day: just announce whatever sexual fancy strikes me at the moment. As it is right now, I first, always, have to listen to stories about her PR firm, her sister’s family life or the benefits of using dry shampoo. Only after she vomits it all out, she might acknowledge my lips brushing against her neck, my hand pressing her hand against my hard-on.

I’m not being entirely fair. I enjoy Gloria’s company. And, as I mentioned, she’s great to take out in public. Plus, as far as girlfriends go, she’s close to perfect. I’ve never even seen her cry.