A sign that I should possibly do the dishes:

I am currently drinking wine out of a measuring cup.

That is all.

session 4

(recap links: sessions one...two...three).

Quick, Asperger's-related preface:

The fact that intense strengths can co-exist with serious deficits: people never anticipate this. If you are intelligent, the assumption is that you will express this quality in a broad range of areas. The imbalance tends to confuse people and, throughout my life, this has been a source of perpetual misunderstanding. Comic misunderstanding, when I'm lucky...painful otherwise.

All because of that strange contradiction. Verbal dexterity. Social blindness. It throws people.

Is that giving too much away about this session? Probably. I'm terrible at foreshadowing. Anyway.

November, 2005

The last session felt pointless, so I call and cancel the fourth one.

A few days go by.

I work. Eat. Sleep. One day I'm sitting around, reading....and only then do I remember: "Oh yeah. I am on the verge of committing suicide. I...now that I think about it...should probably do something about that!" So I reschedule the appointment.

Another factor: I suspect that I'm self-sabotaging a little bit. During the third session, I was irritated with him for being a bad listener (it felt like talking to a wall basically), but the truth is that I wasn't making much of an effort myself. I've been much too focused on hiding the severity of my symptoms...withholding some things, lying about others. So I'm conflicted about who's at fault. But: I can't really blame him for not hearing me if I'm failing to provide the relevant information.

I bite the bullet. Reschedule. I tell myself: if you're going to do this, be open. Say it. Get it out.

The following week, we're sitting across from one another.

Psychologist guy: How's it goin', bud?

M: Okay.

P: Heard there were scheduling issues.

M: All taken care of.

P: Great. Let's jump right into it. I wanna follow up on last weeks discussion.

M: Okay.

P: You feel like anxiety is not the core issue...and yet...you generally feel anxious around other people. Help me clarify that.

M: I guess mostly what I feel around people is: alone. Detached. And I don't seem to have a very good understanding of how, specifically, to act around people. I have to sort through all of the social data, consciously talk myself through each interaction. Literally, I have to watch people...observe how they're moving, think about what they're saying...and then make calculations about how I should respond. It's overwhelming, difficult, so that makes me anxious, having to deal with all of that.

P: And you don't think this is a control issue?

M: No.

P: What would happen if you just stopped calculating? If you didn't worry about whether or not you're responding the right way?

M: Then I would be totally in the dark. I wouldn't be saying the right things, reacting the right way.

P: So what? The question is: what if you don't worry about that? What are the consequences?

I untie my left shoe. I grab the two ends of the laces and pull them towards me very tightly. I tug on them...pull them for a bit...then re-tie them.

M: Doctor...humans do not exist in a social vacuum. There are implied rules. People fall into patterns, rhythms...they generally say and do similar sorts of things. To interact with people, you need to be able to understand those patterns. So it's not a matter of consequences. It's a matter of reality.

P: Ya' think?

Annoying. I don't respond.

P: The question remains: if you don't worry about the consequences...

M: I'm not worried about consequences. I'm attentive to the reality.

P: But why?

M: What else is there?

P: Let's really focus on that question: if you don't worry about the situation...so what? What happens?

M: Jesus Christ.

I go for the right shoe...untying, re-tying and so on. I feel like my voice is getting loud, so I wait for a bit, make sure it's on track. I want to seem attentive. Engaged. Pseudo-calmly unfrustrated.

P: Take you're time.

M: Sure. Look...maybe I should provide a concrete example. I feel like I have to be able to convey this.

P: Go for it.

M: A few months ago, a friend came into town for a visit.

P: Female?

M: Of that species, yes. But a friend. I see her about once a year. We talk, visit...that's it.

Quietness.

M: I picked her up at the airport. She gave me a hug...and then she said, "You give the worst hugs."

P: Okay. Did that bother you?

M: No, because it's true. I give terrible hugs. I know this...but no one's ever said anything about it. It was a relief to finally hear someone say it.

P: I guess I'm not following. How does this relate to what we're talking about?

M: When she said that, I told her that my hugs have always sucked. I mean, hugs...they happen, then they're over, so there's never any real chance of practicing hugs, you know?

He doesn't say anything.

M: I've never had the practice I needed. So I said: "If it's okay with you, every day that you're in town, I would like to give you one hug. I'll try to improve on it, and you can give me feedback."

The doctor opens his mouth but doesn't say anything. He looks confused. I'm feeling increasingly tense because this is difficult to talk about. I've never openly discussed this with anyone before. I stare at him...I try to will his brain into absorbing some of this. I'm thinking: please, please...let an ounce of this seep in.

He rubs his hands together, looks at the ceiling.

P: Hmm. How did she respond to that request?

M: She said it would be fine. I...ugh. This is tough. I had always wanted to ask someone if I could practice my hugs...but I was terrified about how that would sound, you know? I'm a grown man, yet I'm easily confused by hugs and I've always tried to conceal that. So...after her comment, I felt comfortable enough to ask. Seemed like a rare opportunity to finally just ask, if that makes any sense.

The doctor continues with the mouth-open/confused routine.

M: She was in town five days. Once, each day, I gave her a hug. I tried to mimic the way she moved. I was really trying to get the mechanics right. She would say, "Better," or "Worse," and we would talk about it. And this gets back to your question: what happens if I don't think about the social data? I'm left clueless, Doctor. I'm clueless about how to respond to people. To know what to do, I have to watch others and kind of go along with whatever they're doing. Most of the time there aren't problems. Like in small talk, or with day-to-day interactions: I can work those, figure them out. But hugs are so incredibly complicated that it's difficult to predict and utilize the right mechanics.

P: You. Bright guy like yourself. You think hugs are complicated?

M: You don't think they are?

P: I'd like to know how you define them.

M: As complicated. Right? This was a friend, for example. Friend Hugs are supposed to express affection. The mechanics can be a little more intimate- whereas with quick hugs between acquaintances, the mechanics are completely different, more remote. The mechanics being: arm placement, hand movement, duration...stuff like that. Which all goes back to your question: what are the consequences of getting social data wrong? Well...if you give an acquaintance a Friend Hug, they might find it to be intrusive or creepy. Conversely, if you give a close friend an Acquaintance Hug, they might find it to be cold or distant.

P: Let me just throw in a question here...

M: Okay.

He pauses and puts his hand to his mouth. I'm not sure why.

P: You said you gave your friend "practice hugs".

M: Yes.

P: When you were doing that...what was your method of "improving" the hug?

M: I'm not sure what you mean.

P: When you were putting your arms around her, what did you do in an effort to make the hug "better"? I'm very curious about that.

He's keeping his hand at his mouth, which I'm still not understanding.

M: Ummm...I remember that the improvements were tough to figure out. From what I could see, my arms were in the right place. It was a little confusing to be honest, because it all looked right. I just remember feeling so frustrated, because my arms were doing the same thing as hers and moving the same way, but it still seemed off-kilter. Ultimately, the only thing I could think of...

My voice catches. I pull my hair.

M: This is fucking embarrassing...

P: It's okay. You can say it. How did you make the hug "better"?

M: The only thing I could think of was to squeeze harder. That's all I could come up with.

P: You squeezed harder.

M: Yes.

The doctor cracks up. His shoulders slump forward and he just laughs. So the hand at his mouth: he was trying to suppress this reaction. It's humiliating.

P: Jesus! At first I was thinking, "This is a put on"...but then you were going into all of this detail, and I was like, "Really?" But then I hear "squeezing harder". Jesus, M. That's funny!

M: Right. Thank you.

I'm caught off guard. He's perceiving the anecdote to be a put on. I feel embarrassed...angry.

But I'm smiling.

Mentally sharpening the knives.

Our discussion: officially, irreparably, off the rails.

M: Good times. Hey, do you have ink blot tests? I say we break those out.

P: Umm...

M: Come on. I'll say off-the-wall shit, I promise.

P: I tend to focus more on the conversation.

M: The conversation, I have to say, is a little confusing right now.

P: How so?

M: You referenced Asperger's a few weeks ago. Which was strange. Maybe I just wasn't conveying: that was kind of a shock to hear.

P: Huh. I don't know that I sensed shocked. I guess it seemed like you were a little surprised, maybe.

M: Doctor...I've had a very hard time in my life, socially speaking. And I've isolated for a lot of years now. And if I've had to go through all of this shit just because of a misunderstanding...just because of an undiagnosed condition like that...I mean, come on.

P: I see what you're saying. That must have been a lot to take in.

M: Of course! That's the point. It was a lot...and as I researched it, I was having trouble even believing that the diagnosis fit. I didn't want it to fit. So it was very confusing when, the next week, you began to categorize my problems as a control issue. And this week you're doing the same thing. It's like you focused on this really big piece of information...and then discarded it. That's...

I poke at my head.

M: I'm trying to make sense of this. So Doctor- in your opinion- do I have Asperger's Syndrome, or am I a control freak? Help me sort out the sequence of your thinking.

P: I assure you, that's why I'm here...to help you sort through all of this. As I've said, you more than meet the criteria for Asperger's. So that's on the table. And at the same time, when you describe some of your behaviors, I hear control issues. I don't feel I'm contradicting myself. You see...

He holds both hands out in front of him, splayed, with his palms facing towards him. Then he slowly move his hands together, so that the fingers are interweaving.

P: The mind can be an intricate meshing of subtle forces; frameworks operating within other frameworks. Our personality...our soul...the world around us: it's a powerful web of psycho-spiritual interaction.

I take a minute with that one...shaking my head, rubbing my eyes.

M: So there's some psycho-webby spirit meshing going on. That does clarify things.

P: You seem uncomfortable.

M: No, no. My mind is just considering the "frameworks" here. I'm "processing".

P: You're seeming closed off. Try talking this out.

M: I don't think so. What I might do...if it's okay with you...is just overtly discard the psycho-spiritual statement and then wing it. Try a different approach.

P: Well...not a problem. This is your time.

He's not smiling anymore.

M: I'd like to return to your contradictory statements.

Now he's really not smiling.

M: We agree that I focus too much on social data. And I'm here precisely because I want to understand why. So...either I have Asperger's, and it's a neurological issue. Or I'm manipulative and it's a control issue. It can't be both. At the very most, hypothetically speaking, the former can cause the latter...but they cannot co-exist as root causes.

P: Why not?

M: Because...the mimicry and all of that, the social problems...surely there's a cause. That's what I want to understand: why have I been this way? And it makes no sense to say, "It's this...unless it's that." To sequence it that way, it sounds like a contradiction. And it does not resolve the contradiction to say, "There are frameworks within frameworks". That's a rhetorical cop-out.

P: Hold on a second...I wouldn't...

M: Why am I doing what I'm doing? What's the core issue? Explain the cause...make sense...and I'll be okay with it. If it's a control issue, that's fine, but I need help understanding that. I'm not seeing how it fits and I need you to really help me get that.

P: Okay. I hear what you're saying. We can definitely distill this down to the core issue. Because, in my opinion, the Asperger's criteria were met...and the control issues are there...but I also feel like there is an underlying trend that runs through both of them. So, if we can bring that out, really focus on that connecting thread, I think it will answer some of the concerns you're having.

My head is spinning from this guys stupidity. Instead of clarifying, he's going to throw in an additional term.

M: All ears. What's the "connecting thread"?

P: So glad you asked. I have a very reliable method for ascertaining that. When it comes to distilling core issues, I use this more than any other technique.

I hunch my shoulders up, start rubbing my hands together.

He walks over to his desk, takes a small piece of paper out of a drawer and hands it to me.

I stare at it.

Blink.

There's a headine at the top of the page: "Feelings". Beneath the heading is a list...it only consists of five words: Angry. Happy. Sad. Confused. Anxious.

Oh hell no.

P: When you're around other people, M...which of those words most accurately describes how you feel?

I flip the paper over and look at the back of it.

M: It's blank. Where are the other words?

P: Just go with those five.

M: Why? If I choose the right one, do I get milk and cookies? I mean, if there's a prize involved, I can probably go along with this, but...

P: Try not to over-think this, M. Just focus on the question and throw out whatever comes to mind. When you're around other people, what emotion do you feel most strongly?

M: Perceptually multi-dissective.

P: Use the list.

M: Discordantly socially-hebetudinous.

P: Let's focus on simplifying.

M: Let's focus on accuracy.

P: Sad?

M: Emotionally pseudo-periphrastic.

P: Well, I shouldn't phrase any of them as questions. Just take your time and choose one.

He looks at me. I look at him. I put the paper down and lapse into my personality screen-saver. This is the thing I do when I need to shut down, think a lot, yet continue to seem life-like. I can generally out-stare God when I'm in this mode.

It's childish, but that's what we do for awhile: we stare. We are silent. Time passes. Seasons change. Civilizations collapse. We wait. Finally:

P: Which parent do you like the least?

I sigh. No curve balls, mother fucker.

The staring continues. Evolution makes measurable progress. Galaxies implode.

P: On a side note, there was something I meant to bring up last week but forgot.

M: Okay.

P: Would you consider taking psychiatric medication?

M: Probably not. Why?

P: Standard operating procedure. It's something I encourage every client to do, depending on the issue. Studies show that therapy has a much greater chance of succeeding if pursued along with medication. You and I are working on defining the core issues right now, but you have described some intense anxiety and depression. Meds can help with that.

M: The problem is not that I doubt the efficacy of meds. The problem is that my life is shit: I should be unhappy about it. I am appropriately depressed. If I take a pill and feel better about miserable circumstances...that would just be weird.

P: One-hundred percent your decision. It's just something I encourage with each client. The psychiatrist I usually go with...I think you'd like her. She's very smart. I'm sure she'd be happy to address some of your concerns.
M: You could address my concerns. If my life is not in a good place, isn't depression a reasonable response?

P: I think anything that increases the chance of therapeutic success is worth looking into.

M: Actually, I said I probably wouldn't take them, but I really don't care. I'm thinking about it...and I really don't care. That being the case, fuck it. I'll actually pop pills if you want me to.

P: Well, again, it's your decision...

M: If I were capable of making good decisions, I wouldn't be in therapy right now. I don't think meds are relevant in my case, but if you give me her number, I'll call the person, get a prescription. I mean, that's all those people do. It's not like there's any mystery about the end result of a psychiatric consult. It's like talking with a pez dispenser. Go. Talk. Pills ensue.

I breathe in deeply and enunciate the next two words very slowly, carefully.

M: Fuck. It.

P: Great. I'll give you the number...but if you like, I can call her today, see if I can get you in there this week. Is that okay?

M: Yup.

P: I'll need you to sign a release so that I can describe your situation. Usually we can arrange these things pretty fast, if she has an opening.

The way that he is rushing this...he is clearly uncomfortable now. It's kind of fun.

M: Yay for pez.

And that's it. We're out of time. He promises to tell me all about the "connecting thead" next session. I go home and drink booze.

Fall Semester, 1997 (part 3)

Class is finished for the week. We're at the grocery store. Jen-ling is staring at a watermelon.

J: No.

We move on to the apple section.

J: Yes.

She loads up on apples.

J: Freezer things next.

We go to the freezer section.

J: Frozen sweet-peas. Frozen sweet-peas. Frozen sweet-peas.

We march down the row, peering into doors.

M: You walk faster than most people run. Here they are. Frozen green dots.

J: They are not dots.

There are two little tables beside the bakery counter. We sit at one of those and eat donuts.

M: Why is it that you will sit with me here, but not in the student center?

J: This smells like baked bread. The student center...they make pizza all day. It smells like cheese. Cheese is horrible.

M: But that's where I am most of the time.

J: The smell is too much. Sit out front.

M: The sun is too bright. We are incompatible.

J: When I moved here, that was the biggest adjustment: the food. American food is unpalatable. It is either grease or cheese. It was shocking to me. Cheese is on everything. Do you like cheese?

M: On everything.

J: Horrible.

She stares at the bakery counter.

J: I did not buy enough donuts. Foooood.

We get more. She bites a filled donut. A dollop of filling falls from the end of it, onto her napkin.

J: Shit.

M: You have to bite those on alternating sides.

J: Don't tell me how to eat my donut.

M: It's all about the filling hydraulics. Bite one side, the filling shifts. Bite the other side, it shifts back. It's a constant balancing act.

She ignores me. I close my eyes and listen to the dry, jazz-like elevator music that the store is playing. I hear shuffling feet as people walk past...mumbled conversation. Everything is quiet, hushed, sedate.

M: I forgot to ask: how was the test today?

J: Troubling.

M: How troubling?

J: Very troubling.

M: How very?

J: Extremely very.

M: Hee. You're one of Those People.

J: What "People"?

M: You stress out about every test; say "I did terrible". Then, when you get it back, it's an A.

J: Today was different. This time I really did bad.

M: That's the other phrase Those People say! "This time was different". Then it's an A. It's irritating to those of us not afflicted with perfectionism.

J: I was not able to sleep well last night. I think it impacted my test performance.

M: In your entire life, have you ever made less than perfect grades?

J: God no.

She considers the possibility. Shudders.

M: I wonder what would happen if you got a B on this test.

J: I would die instantly.

It's quiet. I work on the coffee. Jen-ling squints at a woman standing nearby.

J: What is that woman holding?

M: Umm...I think that's marinaded cheese. They sell this Italian type of cheese here. It's a lump of mozzarella that's been twisted into a braid. It's addictive.

J: Italians braid their cheese?

M: I don't know. It's better than what we do. Americans turn their cheese into flat yellow squares.

J: Ugh.

M: What do Malaysians do with cheese?

J: Eschew it.

We scoot crumbs from the table, throw napkins away, roam around the store.

J: The breakfast aisle...in three...two...one...

We turn into it, begin the march.

J: I will not eat oatmeal. I will not eat granola. I will not eat flakes with raisins. I will eat chocolate puffs.

A cereal box with a cartoon character on the front goes into the shopping cart.

M: Do you hear that? My shoes?

J: Yes.

M: They are squeaking. Ook-ook. It's some kind of Morse code. They're communicating with us.

J: Do not anthropomorphize your shoes.

M: Never. Unthinkable. Shoes should come with warning labels: "Anthropomorphize at your own risk. May cause weirdness."

She stares straight ahead.

M: You never laugh at my jokes.

J: I do not understand them.

We roam around. Later on she glances over her shopping list, says "Finished". At the front of the store: no one else is checking out, so several cashiers are available. They're just standing there, looking at us, waiting. Jen-ling moves forward, but then swivels around and heads the opposite way.

J: The cashiers are all staring. It is too strange right now. Lets wait for other customers to check out, distract them.

We hide in the freezer aisle. Every so often, Jen-ling peeks around the corner, says, "Not yet...not yet". We stand around, wait. We hear a bar-code scanner go "boop". She peeks.

J: Okay. Others are checking out. This is our best chance.

We head that way.

M: The important thing is to act natural when approaching a cashier. No sudden movements. And for god's sake, do not make direct eye contact.

J: Shush.

Cashier: Hello.

J: Hello. You are well?

Cashier: Yes, thank you.

We put everything onto the little conveyor belt and wait. I stare at the floor. Jen-ling stares at the floor. The frozen dots go "boop".

Oooh

The images and words...muchly pleasant...it's my Happy Place of the Week.

Fall semester, 1997 (part 2)

It's 2p.m. I was supposed to give Jen-ling a ride to the store, but we're sitting on a bench, next to an old building on campus. She is staring at the ground. Her face is red...her fists are clenched. We haven't spoken yet. I never know what to say when she's like this.

M: Umm...are you...

J: Shit. Oh, mother fucker. Shit!

Jen-ling...attentive, kind...living embodiment of composure...will occasionally stamp her feet and scream curse words.

J: I am going to fail at my chosen profession.

Also, she catastrophizes when upset.

M: Jesus.

J: The business group I am in, we just completed a luncheon. We invited community leaders to attend. The goal was to meet people. The social component is important. Establish a repore. Establish a repore. Establish a repore. This was intended to be practice.

She picks up a rock, throws it at a trash can.

J: And I know the material from class so well. I keep telling myself this. "I know as much as any student here." All of this learning. All of this studying...and what is the basis of repore-building? Inane conversation. Inane bullshit.

M: What happened at the luncheon?

J: Nothing happened. Nothing. People stood in groups and they talked about...I don't even know what. I could not contribute. I wanted to interact but the topics were: television, sports, television, sports. I stood there and smiled like such an idiot. Oh mother fucker.

M: When people are small-talking, they are usually on auto-pilot. They are saying things even they don't care about. People probably thought you were smart for not engaging in the conversation.

She rubs her eyes.

J: I wish that were true. This was a business luncheon. Small-talk is everything. It's important. Ugh, the professors were confusing. I only know them from class. It was very difficult to simply talk with them. What do you say to professors outside of class?!

M: I don't know.

J: Do you talk with your professors?

M: I'm not...you know...it's not my strong suit. I'm not a social butterfly.

J: Your phrases are confusing.

M: I go into class, I go out. No real interactions.

J: After all these years?

She kicks my shoe.

J: Think!

M: Okay! I'm thinking. One time, two years ago, I was in a professor's office asking a question about class. And I saw this little paperback novel on his desk. So I asked, "How is that?" And he told me about it, said it was okay. And...that's about it. I can't think of anything else.

J: Two years ago?

M: Right.

J: Terrible anecdote.

M: Hmm...I'm trying to think of things to say to professors. Do you know NPR?

J: Yes.

M: Try talking about NPR. That's like crack for professors.

J: I don't think so. Not with business professors. Just...I'm just upset. I will be okay.

M: The television thing is a problem. People fixate on television here. It's the basis of a lot of small-talk.

J: I approached two professors who were having a conversation. They were talking about a particular television show. One of them asked, "Have you had a chance to see it yet?" And I wanted to say, "No. I chose to study for your class instead." And it was irritating to me that he used the word "yet", as if it is inevitable that I will watch this show. It is just assumed: you will be watching television; and you will be watching the same shows. All of us. Together. At the same time. Watching television. Endlessly. Forever.

She picks up a rock.

M: Wait for a bit. Maybe a professor will walk by. You can throw it at them.

J: It would be justified.

people-sketch: Fall Semester 1997 (1)

Things are beginning to go off-kilter. I'm making it to school, but I'm not attending class. I'll show up and proceed to sit on various benches around campus...people-watching, people-listening...skipping class for days, weeks at a time. I'm beginning to roam, mentally. As the months go on, I'll deteriorate. When the school year ends, I'll stop fighting altogether, go into isolation.

But today is nice. It's quiet. I'm in front of the library, drinking coffee, breathing the tinted scent of autumn leaves.

Jen-ling marches up. That's her only walking mode: marching.

J: Matthew. Hello.

M: Hi Jen-ling.

J: Walk me to class?

M: Yes.

We march.

J: I see that you are moping again.

M: No, no. I was people-watching. It's different. Don't you ever people-watch?

J: Oh goodness. I can't sit and mope. No time for that.

M: It's not moping!

J: It is. Here is what you do. You sit. Then...

She gestures at her face. She frowns.

J: Moping.

M: Moping is a form of passivity. I'm contemplating. Which involves critical thought...which precludes the possibility of moping.

She takes out a small notebook, a pen.

J: Spell that. "Preclude".

This is one of her word-learning methods. She writes out the spelling of a word she is unfamiliar with...looks up the meaning later...then begins working it into her conversation. She never asks what the word means; just: "spell that".

J: I am willing to make one concession.

M: Okay.

J: While you do sit and mope... it is better than what most people do here.

She points at a group of students in front of a building.

J: That is what most people do here.

M: They're just standing around. Talking.

J: They are not just standing around. They are loitering. Loitering serves no purpose. Look at them! Like stopped clocks.

M: It's not time for class. What should they be doing?

J: Preparing. Doing things. Not loitering. Everywhere I go, people are just standing around. It's pervasive. You have seen the signs?

M: Which ones?

J: "No Loitering."

She throws up her hands.

J: The problem is that widespread. It warrants the posting of signs. "Go! Move!"

M: Huh. People do stand around a lot.

We pass another group of people standing around.

M: I hadn't realized how much.

J: Americans are blind to their habits.

M: Fortunately I never loiter. I sit and think. That's qualitatively different.

J: I have granted you that point.

We march. Two female students walk by, going in the opposite direction. They are wearing very short shorts, very tight t-shirts. As they are walking by, Jen-ling looks at me, wiggles her eye brows.

J: I saw you looking, Matthew.

M: No!

J: Too late. I know what I saw.

M: I was looking straight ahead.

She wiggles her eye brows again.

M: Stop that. Did...like, were you watching them? Did they look at me at all?

J: Oh, maybe they did. Maybe they did. If you need to think that.

M: I do.

J: All of the men here like that type of woman.

M: What does "that type" mean?

She thinks about it.

J: Bulky.

She sticks her chest out.

J: Bulky. My roommate and I discussed this. When we moved here, we were trying to determine why no one would talk to us. So many people here on campus, yet we were isolated, socially. Invisible. We formulated different theories...but it became obvious: people like breasts. If you are flat-chested, no one sees you.

M: I'm flat-chested. Your theory would explain a lot about my life.

J: Hee. Easy to fix. Stick your chest out like me.

We stick our chests out.

J: There. Now we are bulky. People will see us.

M: Finally.

We reach her building. She looks at her watch.

J: Ack. I still have ten minutes. Let's walk around the building. Do you have time?

M: Yes.

We march.

M: So. You don't like bulky women...

She wrinkles her nose.

M: But a lot of the guys around here...the frat guys...they're muscular. Bulky. Are they equally distasteful?

J: Oh no. They are handsome.

M: What's the difference?

J: Muscles look fit...healthy. Muscular men look handsome. Women, when their breasts are exposed...it's vulgar.

M: Is that what you like about me? The astonishing physique?

I flex. She pats arm.

J: Oh, maybe that's it. If you need to think that, Matthew.

Marching, marching. The building rotates around us. She checks her watch, goes to class. I sit on a bench and watch squirrels fight.

The end.