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On the plane ride home Chris handed me a Klonopin to calm my nerves. It was my first experience with it. I preferred it to Xanax, which usually would just make me sleep. Instead, I was washed with an overwhelming blankness, soft enough to dull my edges but not so much to make me useless. I was able to have a Zoom meeting and edited our pitch deck. I imagined that Klonopin was what weed felt like to old stoners that didn’t get paranoia. When I did finally go to sleep, it was dreamless and sterile.

My apartment was fairly modest. I didn’t love living with roommates, and valued having a separate living and sleeping area, so modesty is the price you pay. It was a junior one-bedroom, what a non New Yorker would call a glorified studio—located in Williamsburg only a few blocks from the L. I felt that it was important to live along the route of the L train if you were going to live in Brooklyn.

I never visited Chris at his apartment. We didn’t commute together, so I figured it must have been somewhere in Manhattan. Maybe an old brownstone uptown—he was sometimes very adult in that way—or maybe it was the complete opposite and he was situated somewhere in the thick of things. A luxury apartment in Tribeca or Chelsea. I could picture him in a sun-soaked loft. Large white clean kitchen. Entertaining. Roof access.

I multitasked while I unpacked my luggage: steak-bites in the air fryer, laptop open and logged onto Slack. I passively thought of Anne. She seemed very lost in life to me. During my last days in Mykonos, when I wasn’t busy with my work responsibilities, or spending time with Chris, we stayed on the beach together. If I was really suave, I would have rented a boat for us. I could have hit myself for not thinking of that sooner. On those days, though, she would run into the water and swim far out– farther than I was comfortable with– and wade back covered in sand and little pebbles and traces of seaweed. Her hair would be ruined, stringy, matted– and she’d take it by the fistful and force it into a sandy ponytail to try to hint at a sense of put-together-ness. Or maybe she just wasn’t self conscious about it. As soon as she dried off in the sun she’d be back in the water. I watched the process silently, smiling when appropriate, teasing her like a boyfriend when a large piece of kelp would stick to her behind. She preferred a towel to a large beach chair, and a fitted sheet to a towel. We’d lay on it together and I’d wipe away the crust from her under eyes.

I poured myself a whiskey Diet Coke and ate dinner in bed. I played around with Gogh 3D for a bit. I was feeling creative. I wanted to make something to capture those last days with Anne. I typed in the prompt:

• A sexy brunette young woman, in a green bikini, soaking wet, running into the ocean, looking back towards the beach. Bright colors. Impressionist style.

The image was generated. The look was off. I adjusted:

• A flat chested, sexy, brunette young woman, in a green bikini, soaking wet, running into the ocean, looking back towards the beach. From the POV of the sunbather she’s looking at, under a beach umbrella. Bright colors. Impressionist style.

I facetimed Anne and took another Klonopin before I went to sleep.

In the morning I felt drowsier than normal. I took an Adderall with my coffee to compensate and had a quick run around the neighborhood before I showered for work. Today was my first in-person day since before Chris and I’s work-trip. Counting in my head, about three-and-a-half weeks. It would be a big push to get back into the swing of things. I decided to take the rest of my Adderall with me, just in case.

Gogh’s corporate office was situated inside a WeWork– Chris chose the more expensive and customizable full floor office membership– which was a little more uptown than I would have liked. My commute rounded out to be about thirty minutes. We had a fun office, reminiscent of the early tech-boom days that I was ten years too young to have experienced first hand. We had a foosball table, beanbags, and a mini bar. Chris and I utilized the foosball table more than the rest of the office, who might have felt nervous they might appear too competitive or something of the like if they actually played during their breaks. Sometimes Chris would challenge me to a game on the clock. He’d sort of nonchalantly sit at the edge of my desk and give me one of his ‘looks’. Rolling his eyes dramatically. I’m so bored, Mike. After a few beers and a quick round we’d both feel considerably more motivated to get back to work. Today, however, I felt nauseous at my seat. In my sleep-hazed morning I had forgotten to make breakfast. I managed to scavenge a protein bar from my desk. It had no effect and I began to feel green.

Josh, Jake, and Kyle (and, Chris, it goes without saying– but I excluded him from this list since he’s our boss and whether he worked in-person or not, I wouldn’t pass any judgment either way) were the only co-workers that worked in-person full time. Max and Jacklyn were hybrid– two days out of the week. Just as I thought Anne was a little lost in life, I felt that Jacklyn must be as well. She should be taking a little more initiative. Come into the office, socialize. Get people to like you before you become irrelevant. I worried that the same awkwardness she possessed that I found attractive would become grating as she aged.

And besides, I’d personally much rather be here than my shoebox.

The meeting with the Koreans went well, more or less. Chris seemed confident as we left– in fact, he gave me a real hard pat on the shoulder while I called our Uber. They liked the product, the brand, and our mission statement. They were willing to invest the five hundred thousand. They just required some more particulars, all these technical business-strategy details, which I wasn’t under the impression was my responsibility to have prepared. It wasn’t the sort of information we had to provide for our kickstarter, and Chris handled all the bank loans by himself. Ultimately it came down to a miscommunication that we could only blame on the Koreans themselves, for not being more transparent to their needs prior to the meeting. But now I had a bucket of work to complete to close the deal. Work that wasn’t exactly a part of my job description. I didn’t have any passwords to our financial records, so I played Tetris on my laptop while I waited for Chris to come in. I still felt nauseous.

Jacklyn was in today. She seemed busy. Her desk was a mess– more than I remembered it being in the past. Papers scattered everywhere, post-it notes on her desktop. Photoshop was open as well as zoom. She had her airpods in but wasn’t speaking. I wondered if she was even paying attention. I decided to investigate in the most casual way possible. This might have been a testament to my boredom. That, and I was hoping getting up and walking the extra fifteen feet might help the nausea subside.

So I sort of stalked up behind her. As I approached, I could have sworn I saw little beads of sweat on the back of her neck framing the underneath of her ponytail.

“Working hard?” I startled her. She popped out her airpod and swiveled around in her chair to face me.

“Uh– yeah. I’ve been busy. It’s been a little hectic around here.” She said.

“Makes sense. No one was here to steer the ship for like a month.”

“Well, I mean, Kyle took a lot of responsibility while you guys were away.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah, yeah, so agree.” She shifted a little in her seat. That nervous uncomfortability. “So… how was it?”

“How was what?”

“Greece?”

“Oh, you know, it’s a work trip. So.”

“Oh, haha, yeah. I’ve never been.”

“To Europe?”

“No! No, I’ve been to Europe before. I went to France for, like, a high school graduation gift. But I haven’t been to Greece.”

“Cool, cool.”

I noticed her eyes widen slightly, and she leaned forward maybe less than a centimeter. I realized immediately that this was a reaction towards the way I was looking today. I usually only became self-conscious around Chris– when I realized I was talking too much, or that I wasn’t wearing the exact definition of business-comfortable, or that I missed one of his jokes– but for some reason I felt very naked. “Well, I better get back to work.”

“Are you alright?” She said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” She thought for a moment. It wasn’t lost on me that this was very brave and out of character for her. She clicked her tongue before she spoke. “You look a little green.”

“Oh.” I shrugged. “Jetlagged.”

“Or maybe the flu?” She lost her nerve. “I’m sorry, now I feel like I’m being weird.”

“No, no. It’s okay. I don’t want to get too much into detail about it, but I’ve been taking some new medication to maximize my sleep. And then, like, I took an Adderall this morning because I was still tired.”

“Oh. Wow, yeah. Adderall can be so great for my ADHD but I’ve been trying to wean off of it. I feel like there’s always a ten percent chance it’ll ruin my day, you know? You should try turning off your phone an hour before bed. And drinking matcha in the morning. I know people also like adaptogenic drinks. I used to buy them from the health foods store on my block but it’s just so overpriced…” She went on and on. I lost interest in the conversation. I forgot that the entire reason I walked over was to get a better look at her desktop screen. From the corner of my eye I saw Chris walk in. He was wearing sunglasses. I was washed with a sense of relief: he might coincidentally be feeling just as hung over as me. In his right hand he held a large parcel– a canvas wrapped in brown paper, dappled with wet spots from what must have been an unexpected rainshower. I watched him as he walked into his glass paned office. He unwrapped the painting with an aggression that made me nervous he might damage it. He took his diploma off of the wall. Hung the painting up in its place. It was the same grotesque penis he made in Mykonos– all abstract and messy. It looked somehow worse under the fluorescent office lights. Sickly. Nearly blue. I doubted anyone would be able to identify it as phallic without intense studying. Maybe if they were alone for a while– fifteen, maybe thirty minutes? Nervously sitting on a plastic chair, waiting to get fired after an unexpected one-on-one meeting. I was sure he put it up just to be funny. It dawned on me that the joke would be just meant for me. Remember Mike? Remember how much fun we had?

Chris caught my eye.

He winked.

I started to spend my weekends at The Met. The first time I went, it was to look for Starry Night, but after asking a security guard where to find it I was informed it was actually housed in MOMA, which confused me. At any rate I did enjoy microdosing shrooms and wandering around the European section. I particularly liked the Dutch old masters (for the dedication to realism) and the Roman art (for the attention to detail). The marble sculptures reminded me of the drawings Anne had plastered around her apartment– but these were cleaner, minimalistic, or more noble. One day I’d show them to her. I wondered if she went to any art museums in Greece. If there were any, they’d likely rival the collection here.

I noticed that I was starting to lose a lot of time. That is, I’d often forget the details of my commute or the details of my time after work. Rather than arriving somewhere I’d find myself teleported. I teleported to the office, to bed, sometimes midway through a treadmill run– usually panicking for a second when I’d lose my pace. Thankfully whenever I was teleported to The Met I was always in a very calm state– nearly tranquilized. I’d blink and check my reflection on my phone screen. Meander down to the American Wing Cafe. Ham and cheese croissant and a Stella Artois. Feeling a bit more present, I’d eventually decide to make my way back to the exhibits. A disgruntled security guard would remind me not to bring any purchased food back onto the museum floor– and I would comply, still in a daze, taking a final messy bite out of my sandwich and nodding like a shy, often-reprimanded child.

Sometimes I would realize I was asleep. I’d walk down to the armory to see the samurai swords and upon entering the main hall notice that the well-defenced models of horses were lightly neighing. They’d raise up their heads, whine, exhale and tap their hooves on their pedestals. If you’re familiar with the arms and armor room at The Met you’d know just how large and imposing they are. I’d slowly creep up towards them– to the side, careful not to alert them to my presence by staying in the dark field of their blinders. Regardless, they’d always notice me. They’d huff and turn their long muscular necks towards me. They’d curl their lips up and show off their square teeth. My mouth would go dry and I’d wake up in bed with the burning sensation of needing to pee urgently. I might have lost time, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure.

Eventually I came to the realization that I needed something a little more grounding in my personal life. My facetime calls with Anne were unmemorable but frequent. Despite getting very little from hearing her voice, I knew that having her presence physically might be comforting. That, and I was twenty-eight. I hadn’t lived with a woman before. My non-single coworkers all cohabitated with their girlfriends. Maybe it was time for a life-style change.

“Do you miss being in America at all?” I asked her one night, trying to frame it nonchalantly as possible. She had bad wifi, the pixelation in her face gave me a hint she didn’t hear me. I had to repeat myself: “Do you miss America at all?”

“In some ways. But I don’t miss living with my parents.”

“Parents suck.” I reminded her.

“Very Bart Simpson, Michael.”

“I’ve actually never watched The Simpsons.”

She smiled sympathetically. She was very patronizing in this way. “It’s not so much that they ‘suck’. It’s just hard being there for an extended period of time. It’s hard to be an adult living with your parents, there’s always a weird power struggle.”

“True.” I ran my fingers through my hair. I was laying in bed, half under covers, and held the phone above my head. It felt like she was hovering over me. Ghostlike. Domineering. “Well, you know, if you ever want to visit the states again, you could crash at my place for a little bit.” I didn’t want to come on too strong.

“Aw thanks.” It was as if she didn’t even care. Maybe she thought it was an empty promise. I had to push harder, she needed to understand the immediacy of my offer.

“I actually have a shit ton of miles right now.”

This piqued her interest. She raised her brow a little bit. I mentioned this before, but I really didn’t mind if she saw me as a meal ticket. “Like credit card points?”

“Yeah. I could probably fly you out…at least in business class.”

“That would be really cool.”

“Okay. Bet.” I walked over to my kitchenette and poured myself a glass of Jack. “I’ll figure it out for you then.” Great, total relief. When we hung up, I took an Adderall and cleaned my apartment like a maniac. I even scrubbed the window frames with an old toothbrush.

For the next few weeks whenever I’d teleport home I’d ritualistically clean. I’m not a dirty person, but I felt anxiety over little things– the grout on the shower tiles, the space between the oven and the counter, or the pilling on my living area rug. I bought expensive frames for my Gogh paintings. I replaced my Target dishware with Williams Sonoma with the help of a matronly black sales associate. I imagined how Anne might dirty the apartment as soon as she arrived– whether it be leaving old underwear on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink, or forgetting to clean the shower drain. Her lodging in Greece was, admittedly, disgusting. With another pang of anxiety I remembered just how much financially I had sacrificed for years to live in New York alone.

But I knew that it would be worth it. When I looked at my painting of Anne– hanging right over my bedroom dresser so that I could see it in the morning, every morning– I knew that this discomfort with change would just be temporary.

A flat chested, sexy, brunette young woman, in a green bikini, soaking wet, running into the ocean, looking back towards the beach. From the POV of the sunbather she’s looking at, under a beach umbrella. Bright colors. Impressionist style.

When I mixed Klonopin with shrooms I was able to live there again, physically. I lived half in the reality of my memory–the real Anne, running towards me, kicking up sand– and the other half in the reality of the painting, where it was never too hot, and Anne’s expression twisted into a come-hither smile.

I unceremoniously told Chris that I was having Anne move in with me. We were sitting in his office with the blinds closed, just chilling really– Chris was attempting to avoid some conversations with employees that he told me “would be annoying”, so we decided to camp out together until the work day ended. He nodded very seriously as I explained to him how she and I met, how we were long distance, how she was in the same industry as us. Then he stood, slowly, and crossed in front of his desk, planting himself a few inches in front of me as I sat and looked up. He took a firm hand to my shoulder, like a school principal or father. Smiled approvingly. I wondered if he was going to hold my jaw as he spoke. Sometimes my own father did that to make me pay attention. T-Dawg did too. It was the brave body-language of charismatic men that I always had admired. He didn’t though. Just rubbed my shoulder.

“I’m proud of you, Mike.”

I swallowed.

“Thank you.”

He continued to stand over me. I became nervous that I was actually asleep. I shifted a little in my seat uncomfortably, trying to decide how real the chair was.

“This is going to be good for you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He lingered for a few more seconds before sitting back down behind his desk. He kicked his feet up and leaned back, arching his neck enough to look at his painting. I looked at it too for a moment.

“Do you want to play foosball?” I said.

“What time is it?”

I checked my watch. “4:45.”

He stood again and peaked out the office blinds.

“Yeah, looks like people are leaving.”

Then I lost time and was home.

Then I was at work again.

And then I returned home.

We had a zoom meeting scheduled for seven pm. Full team meeting. I set four phone alarms at five minute intervals to ensure I wouldn’t be late, or rather, just forget all together. I paced between my bedroom and living room. I felt that as long as I was in motion I wouldn’t forget where I was, despite that being disproved many times over by now. My alarm went off. I missed the first two. I recognized how unsettling that was and took an adderall in an attempt to focus back in.

I sat down and started the zoom call at 6:59. By 7:05 I became paranoid that I had gotten the days confused– or maybe it was an am meeting, not pm. I restarted my computer. Logged back onto Zoom. Slowly, faces began to pop up on my screen. It was only 7:07, I had overreacted. “Hey team.” I said, checking my appearance in my little window on the screen. I looked normal, just tired. I heard a little chirp. “Hey Jacklyn, can you get your parrot to quiet down?”

“You’re muted, Michael.” Kyle said. He kept his background blurred so the edges of his face looked fuzzy. For some reason he reminded me of a nickel, but I couldn’t fully parse out the thought. I unmuted myself promptly.

“Jacklyn, can you get your parrot to quiet down?”

“Is he being loud?” Said Jacklyn.

“I didn’t know you had a parrot, Jackie.” Said Chris.

“Just get him to quiet down, please.”

Jacklyn gave me a little funny look. “Um– yeah.” She hopped out of frame. The chirping continued. Then she sat back down, gave a wide eyed concerned look– “Is that better?”

“No.”

“Um…” She smiled in the same patronizing way Anne would. It caught me off guard and I straightened up in my seat, suddenly hating her. There was a palpable intensity between us as she searched for what to say. “I don’t think it’s me, actually. Michael. Um. I can mute myself? To check?”

“Yeah, do that.” Chris intervened. He looked confused. “What are you hearing, Mike?”

“A chirp.”

“Yeah, I’m not hearing that.” Chris said.

“I heard a ‘beep’ when I first logged on.” Max said.

“I heard that too.” Kyle corroborated.

I furrowed my brow. “Weird.”

Chris gave me a hard look. “‘Weird’. Yeah, it’s your fire alarm, doofus.”

My mouth went dry. I immediately knew he was right. I looked over towards my kitchen. The green ‘change battery’ light on my smoke detector blinked. “Oh. Haha. My b.”

My phone buzzed. I had a text from Chris: Are you tripping?

I thought the question over for a moment. It felt strangely accusatory. A shift in our relationship. A signal that I wasn’t hanging, or that I had crossed some line that I wasn’t aware existed. Even though Chris loved me like a son I worried what might happen if I answered honestly. I also wasn’t entirely certain of what the honest answer even was. Staring at my phone for too long might betray more than saying “yes”-- after all, I was on camera right now. I was scared to look back at my zoom screen. Chris would be reading me. Maybe my window was maximized.

There was a huge chance I was reading into his tone. After all, Chris and I partied together, especially in Greece. He could recognize what was going on for what it was. He wasn’t a prude. He likely was only asking to protect me, to tell me that it would be okay to log off to get some sleep. We’d laugh about it when Monday rolled in. How I greened out on zoom. How I snapped at Jacklyn for no reason. I couldn’t ignore how privileged and lucky I was to have a true best friend and confidant in Chris. Everything, as per usual, would be okay.

So I typed out my response, as measured yet honest as I could manage: No, I’m asleep.

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