Small Fry

by Lisa Brennan-Jobs

I cleared my throat. “I’ve been feeling so lonely,” I said. “I was hoping that you could … that we could figure something out.” I paused and looked at Laurene, who held her face very still, as if it was a representation of her face and not her real face. “I’m feeling terribly alone,” I tried again. Still they didn’t speak. I looked at Dr. Lake; he didn’t speak either. We waited. I wished that I wanted less, needed less, was one of those succulents that have a tangle of wiry, dry roots and a minty congregation of leaves and can survive on only the smallest bit of moisture and air. After what seemed an interminable silence, I burst into tears. I hoped it would soften them, that my messiness would give them permission to be messy. I wasn’t perfect or straight-backed or smooth; I didn’t require them to be so either. Laurene finally spoke. “We’re just cold people,” she said. She said it dryly, like a clarification. You’re allowed to say that? I thought. How incredible; that’s what struck me later: that she had dared to say it. How good it would be to know one’s limitations and say them with unapologetic conviction. Her tone was deadpan. I had thought I could shame them for being cold and absent. Now I was the one who was ashamed, for ignoring the simple truth.