Charming as a Verb

by Ben Philippe

“You know, Columbia is big and important and lovely. . . .” She waves her hand a bit in the air as if looking for the right word. “But it’s also just thirty-six acres. That’s all the space it occupies, in the grand scheme of things. Thirty-six acres in the world. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

I wonder how many simultaneous tabs she keeps open in her brain. It’s hard not to look forward to whatever she blurts out next.

There’s something new ahead, of course, but life as we all know it is in countdown mode.

“Man, small talk is not your forte, huh?” “I don’t believe in it as a lifestyle choice, no.”

“Auntie, for the love of God, you have got to stop,” Corinne says. “I don’t have to do a damn thing except stay Black, pay my taxes, and die, honey.”

Any chance you have a stack of flash cards for me on this? Nope. She grinned. Corinne, you awesome human being, will you please be my girlfriend? She smiled and an eleven-letter word came tumbling out. Sureyesfine.

By the time we’d made it back to Terry’s that evening, Corinne and I were boyfriend and girlfriend. In celebration of the news, Terry had an audio recording of Angels in America blaring across the apartment until all the lights were turned off and every ass was, as Terry said, “in its own corner, thinking of Jesus.”

“But this isn’t my life’s work, kid. It’s just work.

Her face isn’t betraying any emotion, which for someone as expressive as Corinne feels like the biggest tell possible that this is all profoundly fucked.

“I didn’t know you liked dogs.” “Of course I like dogs, Henri,” he answers, cracking his back and sounding almost offended. “Cats are the evil ones.

“But I can hope for you to get into McGill and design amazing sneakers and get all the awesome things in the world . . . as your friend.” And there it is. Friend. The worst word in the world. Stupid words.