“Hey?” I snap, annoyed with myself. Down on the sidewalk, a man jumps in surprise at the sound of my voice, then looks up at my balcony, decides I’m not talking to him, and hurries off.
There’s no way I’m going to send a message to Alex Nilsen that just says Hey.
But then I go to highlight and delete the word, and something horrible happens.
I accidentally hit send
The message whooshes out.(to move swiftly with a gushing or hissing noise:gusts of wind whooshing through the trees.)
“Shit, shit, shit!” I hiss, shaking my phone like maybe I can make it spit the text back up before that measly word starts to digest. “No, no, n—”
Chime.(a melodious ringing sound, as produced by striking a bell)
I freeze. Mouth open. Heart racing. Stomach twisting until my intestines feel like rotini noodles.
A new message, the name bolded at the top: ALEXANDER THE GREATEST.
One word.
Hey.
I’m so stunned(astonish or shock (someone) so that they are temporarily unable to react) that I almost just text Hey back, like my whole first message never happened, like he just hey’d me out of the blue(If something happens out of the blue, it is completely unexpected). But of course he didn’t—he’s not that guy. I’m that guy.
And because I’m that guy, who sends the worst text message in the world, I’ve now gotten a reply that gives me no natural inroad(a forward movement) to a conversation.
What do I say?
Does How are you? sound too serious? Does that make it seem like I’m expecting him to say, Well, Poppy, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you BAD.
Maybe something more innocuous, like What’s up?
But again I feel like the weirdest(strange) thing I could do right now is willfully ignore that it is weird to be texting him after all this time.
I’m sorry I sent you a text message that said hey, I write out. I erase(remove (writing or marks)) it, try for funny: You’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you here.
Not funny, but I’m standing at the edge of my tiny balcony, actually shivering(shaking slightly and uncontrollably as a result of being cold, frightened, or excited.) with nervous anticipation(expectation) and terrified to wait too long to respond. I send the message and start to pace. Only, because the balcony’s so tiny and the chair takes up half of it, I’m basically just spinning like a top,
a tail of moths chasing the blurry(not clearly) light of my phone.
It chimes again, and I snap(a sudden, sharp cracking sound or movement) down into the chair and open the message.
Is this about the disappearing sandwiches in the break room?
A moment later, a second message comes in.
Because I didn’t take those. Unless there’s a security camera in there. In which case, I’m sorry.
A smile blooms across my face, a flood of warmth melting the anxious knot in my chest. There was a brief period of time when Alex was convinced he was going to get fired from his teaching job. After waking up late and missing breakfast, he’d had a doctor’s appointment(an arrangement to meet someone at a particular time and place) over lunch. He hadn’t had time to grab food after, so he’d gone to the teachers’ lounge, hoping it was someone’s birthday, that there might be donuts
or stale muffins he could pick over.
But it was the first Monday of the month, and an American History teacher named Ms. Delallo, a woman Alex secretly considered his workplace nemesis(a person cannot overcome), insisted on cleaning out the fridge and counter space on the last Friday of every month—and then making a big deal about it like she expected to be thanked, though oftentimes her coworkers lost a couple of perfectly good frozen lunches in the process.
Anyway, the only thing left in the fridge was a tuna salad sandwich.
“Delallo’s calling card,” Alex had joked when he recounted the story to me later.
He’d eaten the sandwich as an act of defiance(a daring or bold resistance to authority or to any opposing force) (and hunger). Then spent three weeks convinced someone was going to find out and he’d lose his job. It’s not like it was his dream to teach high school literature, but the job paid okay, had good benefits, and was in our hometown back in Ohio, which—though to me, a definite negative—meant he got to be close to two of his three younger brothers and the children they’d started churning out(at birth).
Besides, the kind of university job Alex really wanted just didn’t come up very often these days. He couldn’t afford to lose his teaching job, and luckily he hadn’t.
SandwichES? PLURAL? I type back now. Please, please, please tell me you have become a full-fledged hoagie thief.(a sandwich thief)
Delallo’s not a hoagie(A submarine sandwich is a type of cold or hot sandwich made from a cylindrical bread roll split lengthwise and filled with meats, cheeses, vegetables, and condiments.) fan, Alex says.
Lately she’s been hot for Reubens.(The Reuben sandwich is a North American grilled sandwich composed of corned beef, Swiss cheese, sauerkraut, and Russian dressing, grilled between slices of rye bread. It is associated with kosher-style delicatessens, but is not kosher because it combines meat and cheese.)
And how many of these Reubens have you stolen? I ask.
Assuming the NSA is reading this, none, he says.
You’re a high school English teacher in Ohio; of course they’re reading.
He sends back a sad face. Are you saying I’m not important enough for the U.S. government to monitor?
I know he’s joking, but here’s the thing about Alex Nilsen. Despite being tall, fairly broad, addicted to daily exercise and healthy eating and general self-control, he also has this hurt puppy face. Or at least the ability to summon(call on (someone) to be present) it.
His eyes are always a little sleepy, the creases beneath them a constant indication that he doesn’t love sleep the way I do. His mouth is full with an exaggerated(represented as larger, better, or worse than in reality), slightly uneven cupid’s bow, and all of this combined with his straight, messy hair—the one part of his appearance he pays no attention to—gives his face a boyishness that, when wielded properly, can trigger some biological impulse(a sudden strong and unreflective urge or desire to act) in me to protect him at all costs.
Seeing his sleepy eyes go big and watery and his full mouth open into a soft O is like hearing a puppy whimpering.
When other people send the frowny emoji, I read it as mild disappointment.
When Alex uses it, I know it’s the digital equivalent of him pulling Sad Puppy Face to tease me. Sometimes, when we were drunk, sitting at a table and trying to make it through a game of chess or Scrabble that I was winning, he’d deploy the face until I was hysterical(deriving from or affected by uncontrolled extreme emotion), caught between laughing and crying, falling out of my chair, trying to make him stop or at least cover his face.
Of course you’re important, I type. If the NSA knew the powers of Sad Puppy Face, you’d be in a lab getting cloned right now.
Alex types for a minute, stops, types again. I wait a few more seconds.
Is this it? The message he finally stops responding to? Some big confrontation(a hostile or argumentative meeting or situation between opposing parties)? Or, knowing him, I guess it’s more likely to be an inoffensive Nice talking but I’m headed to bed. Sleep well.
Ding!
《People We Meet on Vacation》
by Emily Henry 从朋友到恋人
只是搬运工加个人笔记。
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