Lily and the Octopus

and something in me thinks the sun could be healing. That it might irradiate our visitor, desiccate our fish out of water.
“Are octopuses fish?” I ask it out loud without meaning to.
“Are octopuses what?”
“Fish. Are they considered fish.”
“No. I think they’re cephalopods.”
Figures Jenny would know that. She was probably one of those girls who wanted to grow up to be a marine biologist before she went off to college and fell for a psych major with big, masculine hands and a name like Chad. I wish I was curled up on the floor in the sun beside Lily. I wish I could lay my hand on her like I did when she was a pup, to let her know that all that worried her would be okay so long as I was there. It’s where I belong instead of here.
“What about dating, though?” Jenny snaps me back to attention.
“Dating. I don’t know. It’s fine. Uneventful. Soporific.”
“Juvenile?” she asks.
“Not sophomoric.” God, I want cookies. “Soporific. You know, tedious. Tiresome.”
“Why is it tiresome?”
“Because it is.” Cookies.
“It’s always interesting to meet new people, isn’t it? Couldn’t you look at it that way?”
“I could.” I say it in a stubborn way to make it clear that I don’t and I won’t. I don’t know if it’s me—maybe I’m not ready to date. I don’t know if it’s them—maybe the good ones are already taken. I don’t know if it’s my age. Los Angeles is a Neverland of Lost Boys who preen and crow far too often and demonstrate substance far too seldom. I started dating with enthusiasm and put my best foot forward in the task. But soon I found myself on a string of first dates where I couldn’t remember if the story I was telling was one I had already told, or if it was a story I had told a previous date a night or two earlier. In an effort not to be boring, I had concocted a string of my best anecdotes, a highlight reel of witticisms, and in employing them over and over again, I ended up boring myself.
All of this I should be saying out loud, if only because my insurance company is paying for this time and I am paying for my insurance (as a freelance writer it’s no small expense), but instead I offer an anemic “I just . . . I don’t know.”
“Tell me,” Jenny implores.
“No.”
“Come on. Tumor me.”
The octopus swooshes its powerful arms in front of me, and in a chaotic flash exposes its hungry beak as it leaps for my face.
I flinch, swatting my hands in front of my nose. “What did you just say?” It comes across as accusatory.
Jenny looks at me, concerned. She has to see the sweat forming just along my brow line. I look frantically around the room for the octopus, but as quickly as it appeared, it is gone.
“I said, ‘Humor me.’ ” Her concern melts into a smile.
Did she?
My butter prison is closing in; the walls seem closer than they did five minutes ago. This is usually a sign of an oncoming panic attack. They used to be rare, but lately I’ve had several. The best way to stave off a full-blown meltdown is to do the one thing I don’t want to do—talk about dating. To remember life continuing. To not give in to that which causes the panic. So I relent. “There’s this one guy. Handsome. Smart. Funny. Handsome. I said that twice, didn’t I? Well, his looks merit it. I just can’t tell if he’s that interested.”
“In you.”
“In the art of puppeteering.” I cross my arms protectively. “Of course in me. We went out a second time. And it was good.” This is stupid. I should be talking about the octopus, but I can’t think about the octopus. I can’t feed the panic. “But still, I didn’t know. If he was interested. In me. So, I thought when we say good night the second time, if he tries to kiss me, that’ll be some indication. And if he tries to hug me, I won’t break the hug first.” Pleased with that plan, I point to my head—like it’s more than just a hat rack. Then I realize perhaps the octopus is hiding on my head, heads being a place he seems to be fond of, and I give myself a top-to-bottom pat down. Jenny looks at me like I’m experiencing some sort of debilitating seizure, but forges ahead.
“Smart. Then you could see if the hug was a friendly hug or a romantic hug. So, what happened?”
“I broke the hug first.”
Jenny looks at me, disappointed.
Defensively: “Well, he didn’t break the hug, either, so we were just standing there like two stroke victims propping each other up!” The walls are now so dangerously close that I wonder if they will crush me or if I will be pressed into their buttery softness, creating a perfect mold of my form after I suffocate in clotted cream.
“That in itself should have told you something.” Jenny makes a doodle on her notepad, darkening the ed in my name to match the bolded T. She’s being paid to listen to me, and even she finds me boring. But it’s not her fault. Less than twenty-four hours since the arrival of our . . . cephalopod houseguest, I already recognize a trait we share: I, too, am hiding in plain sight. I am walking through life invisible, skulking like a failure, hoping few people notice me. I’ve been doing that since things went south with Jeffrey.
“I think you need to allow for the fact that some people have difficulty expressing themselves,” Jenny muses.
Jenny always employs the phrase some people when she’s talking about me. But once again, this is the wrong conclusion. This guy did not have problems expressing himself. I do not have problems expressing myself. This guy just didn’t