It’s been three months now since you fell head-over-heels in love and asked to ‘borrow’ my collection of endearments.
‘My parents never gave me any,’ you explained.
‘OK, I get that, but do you really need all of mine?’ I asked.
‘It’s good to have options, right? And once I figure out which ones resonate or feel right, I’ll give the rest back to you.’
But you still haven’t, and I’ve scarcely seen you. The times I do, you say nothing of my sweet nothings, despite clearly being in the fog of love. Maybe that’s it: the delirium of romance has compromised your memory or mandated a moratorium on all responsibilities you have to others. Or maybe you need all of those endearments, each now having its own use in daily life or for special occasions. Whatever the reason, I’m doubtful that you’ll return any of them, unless the love affair ends. You could at least let me know how they’re working out.
Wary of being left in the lurch when an opportunity for romance comes along, I hire a highly recommended affection coach. Instead of equipping me with a new vocabulary for fondly addressing loved ones, we develop my hugging and kissing sensibilities. This will allow me to better engage the physicality of relationships and is less likely than new endearments to provoke exasperation over your negligence. It should also make seeing people off a little easier.
The first couple of sessions get me fluent in the basics: how much pressure to apply and for how long; whether I should stroke or pat; how much to pucker and how much sound to make. Then, in just a few weeks’ time, I go from being comfortable with occasional gestures to preferring to express emotions with my body. I lose interest in telling others how I feel and have to slog my way through the use of words to describe my psychological state.
My strong feelings must now take the form of emphatic gesticulation whenever possible. Dismay flings my hands up in outward arcs. Disgust shakes my head vehemently from side to side. Disdain pulls my shoulders up into a shrug that lifts my hands in front of my torso, palms facing upward. With friends and coworkers, I come up with secret handshakes and elaborate high-fiving/fist-bumping repertoires to enact when we greet each other or rejoice over a fortuitous turn of events. All this gains me various nicknames from friends: cheerleader, charadester, gesturemaster/monster, goldmimer. It also gains me the notice of strangers.
While at a poetry reading, I pique the attention of a girl when giving the poet a vigorous fist pump in response to his fresh, splendid imagery celebrating deep-sea food webs.
‘Seems like that whale fall couplet really struck a chord for you,’ she says during the reception.
The remark launches us into a conversation in which we hit it off (both of us marine life enthusiasts), and we make plans to meet a few days later for lunch.
After several dates, I have trouble keeping my hands to myself. First, it’s light touches on her arm or the back of her hand, followed by goodnight hugs that go on a few seconds too long. Then, when we’re out walking, I’m prone to holding her wrist and rubbing the base of her palm with my thumb.
Concerned that this physical neediness might adversely affect or even jeopardize the burgeoning relationship, I consult the coach.
‘We could work on other modes of expression,’ the coach says. ‘Singing and poetry tend to be good ones. Dance could be effective too. But really, you should talk with her about this.’
‘It’s not too early in the courtship to get into how I express myself?’
‘Better too early than too late.’
So on our next date, over happy hour appetizers, I tell her about my need to convey my emotions through touch and movement.
‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she says. ‘Though if things get more serious between us, I’d prefer it if you weren’t so demonstrative with other people. I’m the jealous type.’
‘OK,’ I answer, not sure what else I can really say. I appreciate her honesty, but this doesn’t seem to be the time to get into who she is and isn’t comfortable with me high fiving.
‘But what I’d really like,’ she says. ‘Are some sweet little soubriquets. If things get more serious.’
‘When do think that would be?’
‘The way things are going, you could call me sweet potato or honey badger after another couple dates.’
I had no idea that things were moving this quickly, but maybe my body language has been prodding the relationship forward. If our pace of a date roughly every five days keeps up, I’ve got something like a week to figure this out.
‘Speaking of upcoming dates,’ I say. ‘Any interest in going dancing or to a poetry slam?’
‘Yeah, those sound good. Though I was thinking we could do a mixology class or see a magic show.’
Cocktails and sleight of hand… Maybe I can work with those.
Soramimi Hanarejima is the author of Visits to the Confabulatorium, a fanciful story collection that Jack Cheng said, ‘captures moonlight in Ziploc bags.’ Soramimi’s recent work can be found in [PANK], Every Day Fiction, Fiction Kitchen Berlin and Tahoma Literary Review. Find Soramimi at CognitiveCollage.net.
