I am.Am I brave? I hope.But.Somehow I don’t feel one bit different.Somehow everything feels different.Has he touched me?Yes. A thousand times.But.Has he touched me?A mountain of fire rushes at my head.I’m back to Earth.Oh—I’m here. It’s my birthday dinner.My folks, the Greens, Schuyler. We’re all sitting in my favorite Japanese restaurant. The hostess is beating a gong; the chef is juggling eggs with a spatula. Skewers are whirling in front of my nose around one knuckle of a single finger. Now he’s threatening to singe off my eyebrows with fountains of flammable saki. Anything to snare my attention.I’m barely noticing. Schuyler pokes me with a chopstick, missing my right boob by the width of a bra strap.“Hey!” he says. “Snap out of it. What are you thinking about? You’ve been on Planet 9 all day.”“What?”“Earth to birthday girl. They’re about to sing.”“Oh no, you didn’t.”“Don’t look at me.”I endure it. I have to.I know I’ve been neglecting Schuyler, and he knows it too.
