When My Heart Joins the Thousand(10)

I appreciate that. But I don’t want you being exhausted tomorrow on my account. I should probably at least try to sleep, anyway. I’ve got class in the morning, and I don’t want to be a zombie.

I’ll send you some alpha brain wave recordings, then. They’re supposed to be for meditation, but I use them when I’m trying to sleep. Sometimes they help.

Cool. That’s really nice of you. :)

Not really. It won’t take much effort on my part.

Well, thanks anyway.

I upload the recordings and send him the links, then sign off. For a while, I sit there on the couch. The moon shines through the curtains. It’s very bright. I rise, spread my fingers and press my palm against the window, over the pearly sphere, as if I can capture its light.





CHAPTER FIVE


A dead mouse lies nestled in the palm of my gloved hand. Slowly I stretch out my arm.

Chance cocks his head, peering at me. I can see my reflection in the glass-like, convex curve of his cornea. In one swift movement, he snatches the mouse, pins it beneath his long yellow talons, and pulls out a string of bloody meat with his beak. A thrill of triumph runs through me. It’s the first time he’s taken food from my hand.

A hawk’s claws can exert over one hundred and sixty pounds of pressure. They’re designed to lock into prey and hold it immobile. Even without his wing, he could seriously hurt me. But he won’t—not unless I make a sudden move and frighten him. He’s grown to trust me a lot more over the past two weeks. I’m looking forward to telling Stanley about my success.

It’s strange, how routine my conversations with him have come to feel—how quickly and easily he slipped into my life.

Chance finishes his lunch and yawns. The feathers on his throat are a creamy yellow brown, speckled with black. When he preens his one wing, the sunlight shines through his pinfeathers, turning them almost translucent.

I check my watch. Lunchtime for me, too. After stripping off and disposing of my gloves and washing my hands, I retrieve my bag lunch from my car and make my way to the main office building where the break room is located. In the hallway outside, I freeze. There are people inside the break room; I can hear them talking through the door. I recognize the voice of Toby and one other coworker, a young man with a unibrow whose name I can’t remember.

“I dunno, man,” Unibrow says, “she’s pretty weird.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m gonna ask her out or anything,” Toby replies. “I’m just sayin’, she’s got a nice ass. I’d hit that.”

“But isn’t she, like, autistic or something?”

“What, so she can’t fuck?”

“Gross,” Unibrow says. “You’re sick, man.”

Toby laughs.

I back quietly away, retreat from the building, and lean against the wall outside. My heart is beating a little too quickly. There’s an unpleasant, squirmy sensation under my skin—the sense of violation that always comes from overhearing people talk about me behind my back. My appetite has evaporated, so I throw out my sandwich, grab a broom and dustpan, and start sweeping the path.

After work, I go straight home. Since I started talking online with Stanley, I’ve stopped going to the park. He doesn’t come there anymore, and without him, it feels empty.

It’s Wednesday. My meeting with Dr. Bernhardt is at four o’clock.

This time, I’m not caught off guard, so I straighten up my apartment before his arrival, dousing every surface with Lysol and shoving the dirty laundry into the closet. I buy a bag of oranges so he can’t complain about the lack of fruit or vegetables in my kitchen.

“You know,” he says, “you could offer me a seat. Or something to drink.”

“I assumed that you’d sit if you felt like it and that you’d ask for a drink if you wanted something.”

“Yes, but it’s polite to offer.”

I take this as his way of saying he wants something to drink. I wish people would be more direct. “I’ve got water, coffee, and orange soda.”

“Just water, thanks.”

I fill a glass and set it on the coffee table, and he sits, peering at me over the rims of his glasses. “So,” he says, “how have you been?”

It’s a routine question, and I usually answer fine without elaborating. But after last session, I feel like I need to be more specific. “I met someone.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You mean . . .”

“We’re just talking online,” I reply quickly. “We’ve been discussing quantum theory. Among other things.” I pour myself a glass of orange soda.

“So, are you going to tell me anything about this person? How old is he? Or she?”

“Nineteen. He’s a student at Westerly College.”

“And?”

I take a swig of soda. The fizz tickles going down my throat. “He’s . . . interesting. I like talking to him.” Even admitting that much feels strange. “But we’ve never met face-to-face.”

“Text-based companionship is better than none at all. In any case, I know this was a big step for you. And it sounds like you and he have some common interests.”

“I suppose. He doesn’t have a very advanced knowledge of physics. And he turns everything into a metaphor. Sometimes a thing just is what it is.”