The Measure(27)

“What’s String Theory?” Maura asked her.

“You mean, like, in physics?”

“I mean this website,” Maura said, turning the computer around so Nina could see the screen. “And all the other pages you’ve been visiting.”

“It’s nothing.” Nina shrugged.

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“I know it looks weird,” Nina said, her face starting to flush. “But I was just doing some Googling, and I guess it got a little out of hand.”

Perhaps hoping to avoid interrogation, Nina turned her back toward Maura and started to pack up her purse, double-checking that she had all her usual items: a few spare pens, tissues, a notebook.

Maura stood up and faced her girlfriend. “There are hours’ worth of searches on there, Nina. Like you fell completely down the fucking rabbit hole.”

Nina looked up from her purse, brushing her hair away from her face with an irritated swipe. “I think you’re overreacting,” she said.

“You know, for someone with a really long string,” said Maura, “you’re awfully interested in the plight of the short-stringer.”

Nina was startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Maura said, suddenly mindful that she was sidling toward a dangerous edge. “I guess I’m just surprised you never mentioned this . . . obsession.”

“It’s not an obsession,” Nina insisted. “I was just . . . I don’t know . . . looking for answers.”

“And did you find any?”

Nina rolled her eyes in response.

“I didn’t think so,” Maura said harshly, turning away from Nina and walking down the hallway.

“Where are you going?” Nina yelled after her.

When Maura didn’t respond, Nina ran down the hall and reached for Maura’s arm, spinning her around and trapping them both in the narrow space between the walls.

“Why are you so pissed off about this?” Nina asked.

Maura stared into Nina’s panicked gaze. She knew that she was hurting Nina, and she didn’t want to. But she was exhausted and fractious and still thinking about last night. While Maura was facing one of the greatest challenges of her life, Nina was off with her nose in some tinfoil-hat conspiracies.

“I just don’t understand why you’re so fixated on these strings, when you’re not the one whose life’s been completely fucked!” Maura shouted.

Nina’s breath stuttered, and the flush of her earlier embarrassment drained in an instant. Her hand dropped limply from Maura’s arm.

“I may not have a short string,” she said quietly, “but you and I share our lives now, so whatever you’re going through affects me, too.”

“I can’t believe you’re making this about you,” Maura said bitterly.

“I’m not trying to!” Nina’s hands flew up in frustration. She was fighting hard not to get angry. Maura felt like she could practically see Nina’s mind searching for a way to defuse the situation, before it was too late.

“Look, I know that I can get a little compulsive sometimes, and yes, it’s killing me not to know the truth about these strings,” Nina said. “And maybe that’s how this whole thing started, but I swear it’s only because I was thinking about you and your safety. I was worrying about you. I’m always worrying about you.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter what you find on these websites, because it won’t change anything,” Maura said firmly. “What’s going to happen is . . . still going to happen. You’re only wasting your time.”

Maura watched as Nina struggled against her tears.

“And I don’t need you worrying about me all the time.” Maura sighed, finally ready to relent. “It’ll only drive us both nuts. What I need is for you to keep your shit together. For me. Do you think you can do that?”

Nina nodded.

“Good,” Maura said. “Because there’s only enough room in this apartment for one of us to go crazy and, given the circumstances, I’m hoping I can reserve that right.”





Dear B,




Dear B,

I wish I had an answer for you. A coworker of mine (full disclosure: a long-stringer) spent our entire lunch hour trying to convince the table that the strings are actually a gift to humanity. He said that we’ve always been inundated with songs and poems and needlepoint pillows urging us to remember that life is short, and we should live each day as if it were our last, and yet nobody ever did that.

So maybe he’s right, and the strings really do offer a chance to live with fewer regrets, because we know exactly how much time we have to do it. But isn’t that still too much to ask of people? I can hardly count the number of lives I’ve led in my mind—equestrian, novelist, actress, world traveler—yet I know I’m rather incapable of pursuing most of them.

I suppose I should tell you now that I haven’t opened my box, and I don’t plan to.

Since the strings arrived, so many of our conversations are about such big, heavy ideas, literally life and death. And I miss talking about the little things, especially in a city filled with so many wonderful little things.

Last night, for instance, I was waiting for a cab outside my apartment, and across the street, I saw an old man leaning out of his window, waving goodbye to an elderly woman on the sidewalk below, as she was exiting the building. He kept waving to her as she walked away, and she kept turning around and waving back. On and on, they both continued waving like children, until the woman was nearly at the end of the block. And even when the woman stopped turning back and continued forward, the man still kept his head out the window, watching the corner where she disappeared.