nene's nook

A memory that feels more like a movie floods my thoughts, clouding the current conversation between three friends and me. It’s neither déjà vu nor a suppressed recollection but rather something that feels true in the moment as much as it had in the past. The feeling is something between a knowing and an understanding. A sort of peaceful contentment but only for a brief pass of time. I’m pulled back into the conversation, Joey urging me to participate.

“I wholeheartedly disagree,” I suggest, twirling the red wine in my glass with my pinkie.

“You’re the worst kind of contrarian, did you know that?” Joey groans, exchanging a look with Denzel.

Maria swipes a soft finger beneath my chin. “I find you riveting,” she says, whispering the compliment.

“And what exactly do you disagree with, Anastasia?” Denzel smirks, typically the only one who matches my stride.

“What Joey had said, of course,” I insist. My words are followed by ripples of laughter, drawing the attention of the few people who remain after last call. Maria blows a stream of cigarette smoke into the air above us, generating the fascination of onlookers. We tend to do that as a group – draw eyes.

“You know,” I say once we settle, “I’ve just had a thought.”

“And what’s to come from that big, brilliant mind of yours, love?” Joey purrs.

I set my glass down atop the table beside the leather couch. Looking to my three friends, each of us radiating the kind of energy that creates a looming cloud of sensuality and power, I’m glad. “This feels exactly like a movie scene. Like a chapter of a novel. Or a story someone dreamt of.”

Denzel pulls his arm from around Joey, raising his glass for a toast. We hold our drinks above the small coffee table, each of us locking eyes. “Cheers to living in a movie,” he says, the dimple becoming ever so prominent with his grin.

Joey kisses Denzel, a sweet moment Maria and I nonverbally agree to discuss later on, and we drink from our glasses as if tomorrow wouldn’t come. And we laugh together, agreeing to regard ourselves as typical despite being four 21-year-olds, wealthy off their families’ money and rolling in piles of narcissism.

The writing class I take is a precautionary measure. There was one thing I was talented at as a child, and I decided it’ll be the thing I tell people is most important to me. Making up stories and articulating them onto paper is not as impressive as some people like to think. Anyone could do it; they would just have to believe that what goes on in their mind is specifically more important than anything else.

Anyways, I’ve been writing a book in my gap year that will inevitably last for longer than a year. My parents insist I take at least one class to maintain the pride of my bachelor’s degree. And I’ve only agreed to it because it creates the impression of productivity. I’ll need that if I’m trying to prolong having to eventually return for a masters.

We discuss the power of endings in a story. How the end is so much more paramount than the beginning. But I don’t agree with that. Because the ending is meaningless on its own; the ending is the only portion that requires every other facet of a story.

“Anastasia, your thoughts,” the professor says. He’s written three good enough novels and enjoys holding a frictionless power over us.

“Frankly, I think that the ending doesn’t deserve all the conversation,” I insist. About 6 of the 10 students laugh.

“Elaborate then.”

“We worry about the ending before we’ve even gotten past the beginning. I guess it is human nature to want to know how something will end, where we’ll be by the conclusion. But it’s ridiculous that you can be in the middle of the story and only be thinking about the end. It strips us of the whole point of storytelling. It reduces us to just one point in time for the characters when we should be looking at it all. That is, to understand the ending in the first place.”

The professor crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. I’ve seen the action performed by many older men when they’re in my presence. He’s intrigued by me in more ways than one.

“That’s an interesting take,” he muses. “So, what do you reckon the ending gives us?”

I think for a second, and I can feel the class hanging onto my words. “Endings are for the author more than for the reader. It gives us relief. If someone were reading a piece of work correctly, they wouldn’t need an ending because everything would be there. There won’t be a need for clarity. But, for the author, endings are when your hand gets tired or when your mind exhausts itself or when you simply cannot pick up where you left off. That’s all an ending is.”

He scoffs, the sunlight from the wall of windows reflecting off his glasses. The professor asks, “And why can’t an ending just…be the end of the story?”
           

“Because the stories we write don’t actually end,” I answer. “You think after we create an entire world it just ends because we say it does? As long as that story is alive in someone’s mind, it’s alive forever.”

My eyes shift to the clock, which ticks to the 6, prompting the end of class. All eleven eyes flicker up to the clock as well, following my lead. People start adjusting and readjusting as if they’ve been snapped out of a trance.

The professor starts about something due for next week, filler words until he calls me to stay post-class. I pack up my things slowly enough for him to catch me near the end of the line.

“Anastasia, wait back for a bit?” The gruff of his voice makes me want to gag.

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask, partly to taunt him and partly to see his next move.

He clears his throat. “I just wanted to say, great intel in today’s class. I feel like I learn from you guys more than you learn from me,” he chuckles.

“Yes,” I say, “that is most likely the case.” The professor’s eyes glint with fascination and embarrassment. “Is that all?” He stutters in giving a response, so I turn on my heels and exit, practically hearing the soundtrack with each step.

Ali, the guy I’ve been seeing, is a 24-year-old app developer. I wish I were interested enough to learn more about his career choice, but I’ve decided to separate him from his personality. Besides, we look beautiful together.

He owns a loft in Tribeca, and Ali allows me to indulge in the fantasy. We take couple pictures where people comment on our lives and how they’ve never seen such a beautiful combination between two different shades of brown people. He takes me out to expensive restaurants and treats me no way in particular.

I remember one night, after we made love, he called me a dream. And in that moment, I knew my life was what others lusted after most. That I’m the person people write about.

The following morning during a breakfast I had cooked, I asked Ali what he meant.

“By what?” he asks, one hand scrolling through the influx of news on his phone.  

“You called me a ‘dream’, and I’m asking what you mean by that,” I say.

Ali keeps from laughing, absolutely enamored by me. He thinks for a little, which is my favorite face on him. He combs at his beard and his eyebrows meet at the crinkle between them. I could see myself marrying Ali. It would be a perfectly content life until the end. He’s pleasant and self-aware enough. He comes from money but also makes money. And Ali is in love with me.

“I mean that you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he says, smiling while delivering the perfectly satisfactory line.

I rip off a piece of bacon with my teeth, nodding at him in appreciation. Ali can’t help himself when he kisses the center of my forehead. My stomach flutters.

“Will you come with me to a work gala this Friday evening?” Ali asks. Of course, I agree. I would never miss out on an event of merit. I’ll have to buy a new dress and change my nails to something more professional.

Ali decides to take off of work, assuming that it would probably be a sluggish day anyways. We rest in bed, his head settled between my thighs, as we watch the new television show both of us enjoy mocking. A tightly packed joint is passed between us, and I discover that the visual of smoke being blown into his face turns me on.

He’s gifted in bed just as he is in everything in life. That is probably why we knew each other the first time we shared a glance. We knew our equal. For a second, I wonder how he would react if I broke up with him. Ali kisses me and mutters beautiful words into my neck, temporarily distracting me from a gut feeling that comes and go without reason.  

“I thought you and Denzel weren’t involved any longer,” I ask Joey. His right eye opens to peer at me, closing once it finds the smile on my face. “You know,” I begin, “I’m only trying to be a good friend.”

“Why don’t you be a good friend to Denzel?” Joey snaps. The lady working on his toes exchanges a look with the lady working on my nails. “He’s the whore.”

I nearly choke on thin air. “We do not slut shame our friends here, Joseph.”

He rolls his eyes. “Trust me, he absolutely adores being slut shamed.”

“And we will not repeat our sexcapades in public spaces.” I repress a smile. “Do you reckon your heart will finally be broken by the time we’re thirty? Because I’m assuming that’s when you’ll realize that your unrequited love for our

Joey looks to me again, thinking. “Yes,” he says, “I do reckon.”

We release the laughter that has been boiling between us, a sound so lively and regal. The rest of the salon can’t help but stare in fascination…or perhaps admiration. For a second, it doesn’t feel real. Like they’ve been cued to simultaneously look our way, to share the same expressions.

It all feels recognizable. I reach out to place a hand to Joey’s chair, disregarding my newly manicured nails. Joey is bewildered. I ask him in a whisper, “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Anastasia, love, are you alright?” I can’t imagine my expression.

“People are staring.” Something tells me they can hear us as well. They’re listening to everything we’ve said and scrutinizing everything we’ve done. “This all feels…this is all like déjà vu, Joey. But no,” I correct myself, “it’s not. It’s as if I’m realizing something true. Something real.” 

“Maybe the polish has seeped to your skull,” Joey says. I look to him, observing my friend as if seeing him for the first time. Aside from his quick wit, there’s not much else to Joey. It’s the only part of him that seems significant. His archetype.

“Anastasia finds herself scanning the salon, not able to recall how she got there in the first place. Or why Joey was the one chosen to accompany her. It seems like every decision she’s made has not been her own,” Maxwell reads. He looks up at me, brown eyes shiny and all, smiling. “This was my favorite part. And the fact that we never got the conclusive end we were hoping for…just wow, Sara. This is my favorite work of yours so far.”

My heart flutters involuntarily. I have to remind myself that for Maxwell, I’m just one of the 15 people he sees every Tuesday and Thursday. I suppress a smile.

Professor Carleton adjusts his glasses, an indication that he’ll begin his own critique. Everyone in the class turns to attention. “I agree with what everyone has been saying,” he says, releasing the breath of relief that has been building up within me since class began. “This story is fantastic. The perfect amount of tension and explanation, the characters

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“But about this ending. I have to say, I saw it coming,” he says. The class snickers and snorts with dubiety. “I did! I did. Okay, okay, okay. But in all seriousness, it felt like Anastasia was being prepared for something throughout the story. Of course, this is due to your frequent mention of her self-realizing her own prodigious life. And those moments when she’s brought out of it, for just one second, as if she’s realized the error, the glitch. Maybe rather than having the end be as insignificant as the beginning, you lead Anastasia to the end of her story. You announce THE END. And that’s when she realizes her story is being written by an undergraduate college student for a last-minute assignment.” The class echoes in agreement and awe.     

Maxwell catches up to me right as I exit the English building. He’s never walked with me like this before, so I have to contain my thrill.

“So,” he says, putting his hands in his pocket, “do you think people in the heavens are writing stories about us?” I accidentally let out a burst of laughter. I slap a hand over my mouth, which he gently peels off. “Is that a yes?”

I clear my throat. “I don’t think they’re writing stories about us. I think they’re writing stories that create us. Right here, right now, is just a sentence they’ve thought of.”

Maxwell pauses for a second, wearing thoughtfulness so well. We walk past a group of runners, each one jogging and huffing in the exact same way. He laughs, “Yeah, can’t comprehend.”