The First Bad Man

by Miranda July

Then I realized that we all think we might be terrible people. But we only reveal this before we ask someone to love us. It is a kind of undressing.

I see us in medieval times, huddling together in long coats. I see us both with crowns on. I see us in the forties.” “The 1940s?” “Yes.” “I was born in ’48.” “That makes sense because I was seeing us as a very old couple in the forties. That was probably the lifetime right before this one.” I paused. I had said a lot. Too much? That depended on what he said next. He cleared his throat, then was silent. Maybe he wouldn’t say anything, which is the worst thing men do. “What keeps us coming back?” he said quietly. I smiled into the phone. What an amazing thing to be asked. Right now, tucked into the warmth of my car with this unanswerable question before me—this might have been my favorite moment of all the lifetimes. “I don’t know,” I whispered. I quietly leaned my head against the steering wheel and we swam in time, silent and together.

“I’m a mature woman, Cheryl—I ask for what I want, and if the desire isn’t mutual, well, at least I haven’t wasted any time thinking about

had added meaningful layers to things that were meaningless many, many times before.