Deep Cuts

by Holly Brickley

Instead of sleeping that night I revised my end of the conversation in my head over and over, a lifelong pastime I always rationalized as productive since the lessons could apply to future interactions, though that never seemed to happen.

My mom isn’t like your mom. She hates almost everything: restaurants (“How do you know what they’re putting in the food?”), museums (“Art zoos!”), travel (“Bragging rights for sale”), camping (“Trying on homelessness”).

“That’s, like, the ninth dumb thing I’ve heard you say in twelve years of friendship,” she said. “Divided by four years, that means you’ll probably say three dumb things at college. Not enough to be statistically significant.”

She was always miffed when I didn’t get an A-plus, disappointed not in me but in the professor’s inability to recognize her daughter’s genius.

I cast my mind over the song we’d just heard, then over all the songs of the day, but the only line I could find was by Stevie Nicks, and so obvious I almost didn’t use it. “I think you’ve been afraid of changing because you’ve built your life around her.”

Of course I’d judged his commas; his commas were like gnats that crawled onto the screen and settled in random corners of his sentences.

“The song makes you feel the way she wishes you’d make yourself feel.”

I found it deeply disappointing even as I related to an awful seed of truth inside it: that all my attempts to grow, to find creative independence and purpose, were at least partly in service of becoming more lovable.

We’d all bought tickets to the show and set list predictions were a legitimate topic of conversation.

I missed Joe. It always came like this, a hard stab, dissipating slowly. I checked my phone.

This was the perfect thing for him to say. It acknowledged my weirdness the night before while sealing it shut, closing it for discussion.

I tried to relax my head against his chest, but I couldn’t find my usual nook. And the longer he held me the more I felt myself stiffen. It was all the layers of clothing, I thought, muting the effect of the hug—these coats render everyone so sexless, just hordes of blackened marshmallows marching through the concrete jungle. But I knew it wasn’t the coats. My body was petrified. It had made too many mistakes; it couldn’t be trusted.

Because we’ve all done some “jivin’ around”: that endless game of trying to be heard without accidentally saying too much—of daring to express an emotion that might be subject to change, to a man who just wants you to service his parts.

“Sometimes, you know, you’re with someone and you’re convinced that they have something to…to tell you…. So maybe nothing’s happening, but you keep telling yourself something’s happening. You know, innate communication. He’s just not saying anything. He’s moody or something.

“A Case of You” she depicts him as a poison for which she has developed such tolerance that she can easily consume lethal amounts.

You would be forever connected to these women: your people. And your wound would be healed.

The song is a snapshot of one fleeting moment when a man’s life was easy. We all get these moments, if we’re lucky, and we stay with them if we can. But we must prepare to bleed.

We are all just writing about ourselves.

“Definitely saying something”—a deadweight compliment, almost backhand. It hung in the air.

When there’s nothing concrete to miss, that makes it easier to get over, in my experience.”

For a song about brutal rejection and heartbreak, it’s strange that it makes me feel so heart-swellingly happy, always, just drowning in joy to be alive on this earth.

My job search has ended in success; for more details see “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by the Smiths.

“It’s like September eleventh but fun,” which seemed like something that would never, ever be said again. It made me want to write a song, an inverse of “Bay Window,” about the specific camaraderie of New Yorkers in moments of anarchy.

I told Raj we should have a party; I wanted an excuse to dance to “Hey Ya!” on a loop. He agreed, because summer was ending and people were coming back into town, and he wanted to make appetizers.

We made it to the roof in time for cocktails. The humid air and hanging lights reset my mood, like falling back into a good dream after briefly waking.

She stood up from the deep chair and I noticed she straightened her legs a bit slowly. How awful, to get old. As if it wasn’t bad enough being young. At least our knees responded to our commands.

“Of course I wonder about the road not taken, honey. That’s part of life. But I don’t regret it nearly as much as you think I do.” “How do you know what I think?” “Your disdain for my life choices has been palpable to me since you hit puberty.”

On the weekend, do whatever needs to be done for school and then rent a bunch of mindless DVDs and get some Chubby Hubby. If the store doesn’t have Chubby Hubby, walk to another store (the salty sweet is key, and the walk will do you good anyway).

Honestly, how many different ways is it even possible for the same two people to break each other’s hearts?”

I looked out the window with the phone on my chest for the remainder of the ride, just enjoying the feeling of having Joe to respond to.