I texted Jules on Saturday afternoon. I couldn’t wait any longer. I saw her preview on Thursday, met her at the dance club later, danced, kissed, talked..that was Friday morning. Then Gao and I went out drinking, Ashley drove me home. And I woke up with Ashley in my bed on Saturday morning, around seven o’clock. I don’t know when I went to bed—extremely early. I woke up once to puke.
Ashley was still there in the morning, and I had to buy her breakfast—well, coffee. I drank juice. She drank tea. This is at the local coffeehouse, up the street. Then we had to do that awkward thing where she drives me all the way to the Dayton Mall, to T.G.I. Friday’s, so I can get my car. By the time I’m alone, driving home, it’s two in the afternoon.
The first text I sent Jules was this: How’s your day?
The first text she sends me, is: ::HARD
She does that, she puts those little dots before some words, or between words. I do it sometimes, now. But I got it from her. Jules also uses all caps, which I never do. But coming from her, it’s ok.
I wait for her to say something else, but she doesn’t. Her day is hard. Or: ::HARD. That’s all she says. The silence after it strengthens her meaning.
I decide to call.
“Hello?” She sounds depressed—I mean like something died.
“Jules.”
She says nothing.
“How are you this afternoon.”
“I don’t know..” she says. I imagine her face blank, staring out a window, at rain.
“I hope I didn’t call too soon. But. I wanted to call you—“
“I wanted to call you too!” she almost screams. “I’ve been wanting to! But—I didn’t want to call too soon! Oh! I’m so glad you wanted to call me.”
“I did. I really did. I was even scared to text you.”
“You were scared? Why??”
“Because. I was afraid—that..you know—I didn’t want to pressure you.”
“I want you to be able to tell me everything,” she says, “Without being afraid.”
I’m quiet for a bit too long.
“Was that,” she asks, “too soon? Was that too weird?”
“No.”
“Do you think I’m weird?”
“No.”
“But you think I’m a little strange, right?”
“I don’t think you’re strange,” I say.
“You don’t?” She sounds disappointed.
“I mean—no, actually. I think you make perfect sense.”
“I think that makes you strange.”
“Does it?”
“Can you talk to my mother?” she says. “And use those words: She makes perfect sense. That would be wonderful. I’ll arrange a call.”
“Does your mother live in Dayton?”
“Luckily, no,” she says.
And I leave it at that. “Jules?”
“Yes, Matthew.”
“Would you like to go out sometime?”
“Oh,” she says, “Oh oh oh oh oh.”
Then I say: “I mean—just something..sometime—it doesn’t have to be today.”
“I have my show today,” she says.
“Oh.”
“But you can pick me up after.” There’s a smile in her voice.