Teddy Wayne - Loner

Someone entered the restroom, unzipped, urinated, whistled, zipped, flushed, turned on the faucet, turned off the faucet, crank-crank-cranked the paper-towel dispenser, ripped, dried, tossed it in the trash, and left to go on with his day — his world as intact upon departure as it was on arrival.

I struggled to stand; my legs had fallen asleep. The pins and needles were the only sign that I was still inhabiting my body, which seemed to belong to another person wobbling in the narrow stall.

Feet tingling, essay in pocket, I left the building. It was barely four o’clock but the streetlights were already on, the sky a metallic pink as the first flurry of the season fell, ashen flakes that melted upon contact with the ground. I was walking back to Matthews when I realized I didn’t want to be in my room, didn’t want to be on campus at all, so I turned south through the tranquil Yard and into the bustle of Harvard Square, past storefronts winking with Christmas lights, past two kids sticking out their tongues to catch the snowflakes, past a Salvation Army Santa Claus ringing a bell, past a fire truck with a wreath on the grill ambling down Mass Ave.

Beta. That’s all I was to you. Beta. That’s all I was.

No particular destination in mind, I kept walking. Halfway across the Anderson Memorial Bridge, I paused to read a small plaque embedded in the brick wall.

QUENTIN COMPSON

Drowned in the odour

of honeysuckle

1891–1910

A fictional character had left more of a literal mark on this place than I ever would.

DAVID FEDERMAN

Wasn’t here

August — December

Freezing gusts of winter unfurled off the river. I opened up the contacts on my phone. No need to scroll; the entire list fit on one screen: Anna, Dad, Miriam, Mom, Sara Cohen.

“David, hi, I’m in the middle of something. Can I swing by your office in five?” answered my mother.

“Mom?” I said, confused. “It’s me. David.”

“Oh!” She laughed. “I saw your name and thought it was David Franklin at my firm. I didn’t call you, did I?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s nice to hear your voice.” Her keyboard clacked in the background. “How’re finals?”

“Fine,” I said.

Rustling papers. “Busy studying?”

“Mmhuh.”

“It sounds windy. Are you outside?”

“Just taking a little break outside the library.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Sorry, I was talking to someone else. I hope you’re not too stressed out.”

“I’m not. I’m about to meet my friends for dinner.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “What do you call yourselves, again? The Matthews Martyrs?”

“Marauders.”

“Of course, the Ma rauders .” She laughed again. “Excuse me.”

“I should probably get going,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. “Remind me what day you’re taking the bus?”

I didn’t answer.

“David? I can’t hear you.”

My breathing became jerky. I moved the phone away from my mouth.

“You still there?”

“I’m here,” I said, my voice catching in my throat.

“ David, ” she said in a tone she hadn’t used since I was a child. “Are you crying? Did something happen?”

“There’s this girl.” I choked on the rest of the sentence.

“A girl?” She waited. “Is it a girlfriend ?”

“No,” I said. “She didn’t want to be.”

“Oh, David,” she clucked. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could reach through the phone right now and give you a hug.”

The skyline slackened and quivered. The lights dancing off the river blurred into a shiny nimbus.

“I know it’s hard to believe this, because it feels awful now, but you’ll get over it,” she said. “I was so heartbroken over this boy my freshman year of college, I hardly ate for weeks. And now I can’t even remember his name!”

The snow began sticking. The squeak of windshield wipers could be heard as traffic slowed.

“Have you talked about this with your friends?” she asked.

When I didn’t answer she continued. “I know you’re a private person, but it’s important not to let these things simmer inside. This might sound silly, but I read an article that said if you’re upset with someone, a good thing to do is write them a letter expressing your feelings, but don’t send it. Just for yourself. It can help you get closure.”

I wiped my nose on my sleeve and blinked the world back into focus.

“Did I lose you?” she asked.

I cleared my throat and filled my lungs with cold, clarifying air.

“That’s a good idea,” I said, heading back to campus. “Closure.”

I feel like we left things a little unresolved,” I began. “I was hoping to get some closure.”

“How generous of you to include me,” Sara said.

It had taken four days of e-mails to persuade her to meet me; on top of her reasons for not wanting to see me again, finals were now upon us. But she had at last consented to talk, briefly, in a public location.

We sat at our usual table at Starbucks. “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” jingled over the café’s sound system. Our drinks steamed from festively decorated cups. A toddler parked in a stroller at the next table rooted through a shopping bag at her feet while her mother vertically caressed the screen of her phone.

“I don’t blame you for being mad at me,” I went on. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’ve come to realize you were right.”

Sara leaned back, crossed her arms, and let out a skeptical sigh.

“About something being wrong with me,” I said. “There is. Sort of.”

Her forehead crinkled in confusion.

“You said I was missing whatever it is that makes someone feel things for other people,” I reminded her. “But it’s there — it’s just hard to see, sometimes even for me. Underneath this affectless exterior lies a deeply sensitive being.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”

“That’s your line,” I said. “At the Ice Cream Bash. Except you said pleasant exterior and antisocial being. Then you made a joke about being a psychopath.”

“Right.” A reluctant nod. “You have a good memory.”

“About us,” I said. “I remember everything. All the plays and lectures you took me to. Our study sessions at Lamont, and here. Our first date, at that salsa class. When we danced so beautifully.”

A twitch of a smile. I pressed on.

“The very first time I met you, outside Matthews. You picked up my orientation packet that had fallen and you had sunscreen all over your face. Then you came over to say hello in the basement meeting, but I was too nervous to talk.”

The toddler next to us howled in protest as her mother pried a new pair of socks from her hands. She was quickly pacified with a cookie the size of her face.

“The other reason I wanted to meet is there’s something I need to say to you,” I said. “Something I wasn’t up front about that’s been weighing on my conscience. It’s not easy for me to talk about this, but you deserve to know.”

Sara looked soberly into her coffee.

“I lied about not being a virgin,” I said. “I was insecure, and I think I overcompensated and did things with you, in bed, that I felt weird about after. I want to apologize.”

Sara tore off the sleeve of her cup and ran her fingers along the ribbed interior. “Listen, David. I didn’t mean what I said about you not feelings things. That just came out in the heat of the moment. The breakup caught me off guard, and on top of being painful, it was a real slap in the face. You weren’t always the easiest boyfriend. You could be remote, and there were times when it was hard to get through your defenses. That was okay, though — I figured it was worth the effort to get whatever was in there out. But I thought we were finally getting somewhere.”