Future Perfect

When my sister dropped dead of a seizure I started lying, mostly to strangers. I invented near-death experiences, astigmatism, adoption. Anything to feel a little strangeness, something other than me. Who doesn’t want to defect from oneself? The self-righteous, the achieving and capable. Millennials. My sister and I were of a generation that believed in one Wholly Authentic, Future-driven and Optimized Self. A Quantified Self. We paid for apps that told us to breathe. We tracked our steps, set intentions, cleansed, schemed, connected, Became. The consummation of years of servicing one’s Best Self: bullet journals. But when I watched my sister shake, jerk, surrender, I knew I was over chasing that elusive Best Me. In fact, I wanted to kill Best Me. I was thirty-six and that bitch never showed.

A few weeks after the funeral, I told a baristo that I’d been struck by lightning. He was making a half-caf almond latte, swirling steamed milk like a ribbon dancer. I thought of my sister, how we’d write invisible messages to one another with a swipe of satin.

“You that chick on that show?” he asked. It was late summer. The city was empty and baking. “Yeah,” I lied. After he asked me out for a drink, I told my husband I had to work late. I didn’t search for any signals that the decision was at odds with my Personal Integrity. I was an actress.

Baristo and I tucked into a dank corner of the bar. The blinds were down, sealing off the sunlight, breeze, magic of a perfect evening. A Peekapoo humped my leg. Technically, it was my Peekapoo. Earlier I had rolled through Waggytail Rescue, pointed at the littlest poof, asked if I could take her for a spin. They told me her name was Phoebe. “Meet Chowder,” I said as Baristo took a seat. It felt good to be a dog owner. It felt good to lie about being a dog owner. That whole thing about “Living Your Truth?” No one’s the wiser.

“I’ve done some acting, mostly local,” Baristo divulged. We nursed sweaty Modelos. “But I’m up for a Hulu show.”

“You’ll get there,” I said, eyes as wide as they would go. “Trust me.”

“So what else will you do?” he asked. A millennial, he dwelled in the future tense.

I shrugged. I indulged in the ambiance, the general healing balm of vodka, dog, lies. Chowder pawed at my leg with designer-breed alacrity.

I indulged in the ambiance, the general healing balm of vodka, dog, lies.

“It’s so hot you’re into rescuing.” He slid a clammy hand over my wrist, squeezed. “Is Chowder on TikTok?” His eyes shimmered gray, green, brown, a murmuring void.

“Soon,” I said.

Baristo was a self-described Method actor. He preached complete and emotional surrender to the role. An experience of Truth in the absence of Truth. A continuous mastering of the Self. He wore a T-shirt with a sparkly unicorn that read Gangsta. The shirt felt like a metaphor and also not a metaphor. Things can mean themselves and something else, like sex, a lie, hair dye.

Suddenly, the image of my sister surfaced—eyelids fluttering, feet twitching, head jerking, victim to some dazzling electrical storm perceptive to her alone.

“I’m single,” I said.

Everything could be assuaged with the balming nihil of the Lie. So my sister was dead. I could tantalize myself with this dazzling abandonment of Me. I’d go home with Baristo that night, self-efface in the warm folds of a stranger’s skin.

“Who isn’t,” he said.

The beer tasted bitter, sweet, stupid, warm. Baristo let it all spill out: He had nightmares about bacne; he believed he was destined for greatness, if only someone would discover him. He had elaborate plans to be hotter, stronger, richer, purer. He believed that he was just a little bit different from everyone else. And by “different” he meant better. Each I, I, I was a small atom, coalescing to reveal the brilliance of Baristo in all his future ontological glory.

“I’m into some pretty dangerous stuff, sexually,” he finally whispered in my ear, hot and sour.

Bottles of brown, green, red liquor spun across my field of vision, shining patterns just above the threshold of my perception. I wondered if light like colored glass was what my sister saw at the end. Some brightened form of voltaic light, blue stars or golden waves, universal to dying? Or was it something more aching and private? A vision of her only sibling. Me. I wanted to vomit. The Lie had offered expansive, luxurious relief, then folded in on itself. Like a Polly Pocket snapped shut.

“I might have cancer,” I said.

“Who doesn’t,” Baristo said.

I squeezed Baristo’s hand back as the door opened, let flood a surprising light. A man my ageish approached the bar as the music skipped to some primordial party anthem. Boom-ba-ba-boom-booom-baaaaaybe he stopped in his tracks, shifted one lush hip back, then the other as he eased into a low squat, wibbling, jiggling into a butt-thumping tizzy.

“Jesus Christ,” Baristo glared. “Sketch.”

I watched him shake, jerk, surrender. The absolute allure of it: While everyone else was becoming, he had Become. Lips puckered, eyelids fluttered, enraptured by some shimmering electrical charade. Knees bent, back arched, thick thighs whirled down down down. An exquisite thrust betrayed a tattoo on his sinewy torso: God? He shuddered, throbbed, head bobbed. The beat lived in his palpable rhythm, his wild self. Every pulse, present, perfect, complete. Pop pop like fresh stars after a summer storm. Pop like metal to light. Another flash of his torso: Bob, actually. Not God. Pop pop like lightning. He was ludicrous and complete and I wondered why anyone ever looked beyond now for love.

I bobbed my head, smiled, resigned. Boooom-ba-boooom faded into something else. Bob was off.

I took Phoebe by the leash. “We got another gig,” I shrugged.

Outside, the city dusk felt rich but light, like being born.

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