“I’m a big girl,” she said. “Besides, it’s out of your way.”
I thought she was referring to her size, which was not thin but not big either, and then I understood, so I said, “That is true, but I would enjoy the company anyway.” She again said it was out of my way, but I maintained my position, and we boarded the train.
It was empty, minus a man and female at the other end. Their appearances and clothing were almost equal. The female rested her head on the man’s shoulder and he had his arm around her, and their eyes were closed. Rebecca and I sat next to each other, and on the trip we discussed nonwork subjects, e.g., Barron and Cynthia and Thanksgiving, but the entire time I was thinking how I wanted us to be in the same position as the couple.
Although no one was looking, I was too afraid to do anything. As we approached Rebecca’s stop, I said, “Rebecca,” and she asked, “What?” but I responded, “I should consult the map,” and I went to the middle of the train to investigate how to get back, even though I knew from the party at Rebecca’s apartment how to return to Manhattan and also I had memorized most of the subway system before I left Doha.
Rebecca’s stop at Fulton St. was next, and I had to stay on one more stop to transfer, and we didn’t talk as we decelerated into the station. I walked with Rebecca to the doors and she again thanked me and said, “Sorry, number seven.” This was the optimal time. Her fingers touched her hair and she looked through the windows of the doors at the station’s columns that passed by us like pictures in a slide projector.
I continued thinking I should kiss her, and commanded myself to do it, but the doors dinged and opened and she said good night and stepped out and the doors closed.
I watched her on the other side of the doors with her back to me, and I also saw myself in the window. I looked foolish standing there. And then the doors dinged again and reopened, as they sometimes do, and I thought this was a golden opportunity and not a random accident, and without thinking I said “Rebecca” as I did before, and she rotated and I leaned across the vertical plane of the train doors and kissed her, and she reciprocated, and I touched her hand, and we remained there for several seconds.
I could still taste the sugary milk from the Tres Leches cake she had eaten multiple pieces of, and the inside of her mouth was warm and the outside skin was cold, and my eyes remained open but hers were closed, and I wanted to remain in that position for much longer, but the doors dinged again and began closing and I pulled back so we would not get compressed.
Then the train moved and I watched her through the window as she looked down at her shoes, and I could not see if she was smiling or worried, and soon I was in the tunnel again. The entire trip back to my apartment I wondered if I should call her or not, and if I should, when I should do it and what to say. It wasn’t like a mathematics problem with a definite solution, and I had difficulty deciphering an answer. I couldn’t consult with my father and especially not Zahira. Possibly my mother would have been helpful for this situation, but I wasn’t old enough when she died to know.
a big girl (boy) = an independent female (man)
look sharp = clothing appears sexy
mutual recriminations = reciprocal insults
pastime = a leisure activity
JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: NOVEMBER 30
Because I didn’t know what to do in this situation, and because possibly Rebecca did, I waited for her to initiate a dialogue with me that weekend. But she didn’t call.
I tried to reroute my brain by spending more time on my idea about Kapitoil and epidemiology. Typically I can force myself to concentrate, but whenever I looked at the text on the monitor, I thought of looking at Rebecca’s closed eyes when we kissed, and whenever I moved my mouse I thought instead of touching her hand, and in my brain I smelled her watermelon shampoo and remembered the feel of her lips like two small pillows.
Then on Sunday I did something I have never previously done. I was using my computer’s painting program to diagram an object-oriented classes of viruses, but instead I tried to draw Rebecca’s face. However, I’m not a skilled artist on paper, and I’m even inferior on the computer, so it didn’t look like her. And then I was struck by lightning, although it was different from my typical class of lightning.
I employed one of the algorithms in Kapitoil and programmed a macro for it to utilize the painting program. Of course it didn’t draw a face, but a random piece of art like abstract expressionism that derived from a picture of a watermelon on the Internet. Except I knew it wasn’t random, because it was based on an algorithm, and when I analyzed it closely I could see the causes behind its decisions. I thought Jackson Pollock would green-light my design, and I titled it R #1.
And then the design did seem Rebecca-esque, as sometimes one object can mirror another one not because they look precisely equal, but because something more tangential feels similar, e.g., much of the painting utilized the visible spectrum near indigo, and if I think of a color to represent Rebecca, it would be indigo, because (1) of her personality; (2) most people cannot identify indigo between blue and violet, parallel to how some people might not notice Rebecca; and (3) I once saw a CD of hers by a female band with the word “Indigo” in its name.
On Monday morning I still had not heard from Rebecca, and I was afraid we were both acting like negotiating holdouts and not making an offer to increase our value. Although I knew I should wait longer, later that morning I emailed her:
Rebecca,
May I request a meeting at your earliest convenience in the coffee room to discuss certain subjects?
Sincerely,
Karim
She replied:
Mr. Issar:
Yes, but only if we can talk like that the whole time. See you in five minutes.
Formally yours,
Ms. Goldman
I didn’t know if she was teasing me or not, but when I reached the coffee room she was already sitting at the small table and tapping her right foot on the ground repeatedly as if she were timing a song.
“Would you like to begin?” I asked.
“I’m not dying to,” she said.
This was problematic, because I had hoped she would start and I could respond. I began talking without a clear plan, which is a tactic I would never use in business.
“I enjoyed spending Thanksgiving with you,” I said. “And the subway ride.”
“But?” she interrupted.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“You enjoyed it, but…” she said again.
I didn’t know if she meant she had an objection to my enjoyment, or if she was predicting I had an objection planned. So I said, “This is not a ‘but’ statement. I merely enjoyed it.”
She looked like she didn’t know what else to say. The periodicity of her foot’s taps was decreasing.
Another employee who always looks like he is asleep even when he is walking entered for coffee. Rebecca and I didn’t say anything the entire time he was there. When he spent approximately 30 seconds deciding between real sugar and false sugar, I had to restrict myself from commanding him to take both packets and decide at his desk.
He finally left. “In my experience, it is beneficial to repeat events that are enjoyable. Do you agree?” I asked.
She said, “In my experience, that’s also true.”
“I am available to repeat events on Saturday.”