The water running off my body is gray.
Standing in front of the mirror, I look almost like myself again, though my cheekbones stand out with more prominence from malnutrition.
—
I sleep into the afternoon and then train down to the South Side.
The power plant is quiet, sunlight slanting through the windows of the generator room.
Sitting in the doorway of the box, I open the notebook.
I’ve been thinking ever since I woke up about what Amanda said in her goodbye note, how I haven’t really written about what I feel.
Here goes…
I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ve worked all morning at the lab, and things are going so well I almost shrug off the party. I’ve been doing that a lot lately—neglecting friends and social engagements to steal just a few more hours in the cleanroom.
I first notice you in the far corner of the small backyard as I stand on the deck, sipping a Corona-and-lime, my thoughts still back at the lab. I think it’s the way you’re standing that catches my attention—boxed in by a tall, lanky guy in tight black jeans who I recognize from this circle of friends. He’s an artist or something. I don’t even know his name, only that my friend Kyle has said to me recently, Oh, that guy fucks everyone.
I can’t explain it, even to this day, but as I watch him chatting up this dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in a cobalt-blue dress—you—a flash of jealousy consumes me. Inexplicably, insanely, I want to hit him. Something in your body language suggests discomfort. You aren’t smiling, your arms are crossed, and it occurs to me that you’re trapped in a bad conversation, and that for some reason, I care. You hold an empty wineglass, streaked with the dregs of a red. Part of me urges, Go talk to her, save her. The other half screams, You know nothing about this woman, not even her name. You are not that guy.
I find myself moving toward you through the grass, carrying a new glass of wine, and when your eyes avert to mine, it feels like some piece of machinery has just seized in my chest. Like worlds colliding. As I draw near, you take the glass out of my hand as if you had previously sent me off to get it and smile with an easy familiarity, like we’ve known each other forever. You try to introduce me to Dillon, but the skinny-jeaned artist, now effectively cockblocked, makes his excuses and bails.
Then it’s just the two of us standing in the shade of the hedgerow, and my heart is going like mad. I say, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it looked like you might need rescuing,” and you say, “Good instincts. He’s pretty, but insufferable.” I introduce myself. You tell me your name. Daniela. Daniela.
I only remember pieces of what was said in our first moments together. Mainly how you laugh when I tell you I’m an atomic physicist, but not derisively. As if the revelation truly delights you. I remember how the wine had stained your lips. I’ve always known, on a purely intellectual level, that our separateness and isolation are an illusion. We’re all made of the same thing—the blown-out pieces of matter formed in the fires of dead stars. I’ve just never felt that knowledge in my bones until that moment, there, with you. And it’s because of you.
Yes, maybe I just want to get laid, but I also wonder if this sense of entanglement might be evidence of something deeper. This line of thinking I wisely keep to myself. I remember the pleasant buzz from the beer and the warmth of the sun, and then, as it begins to drop, realizing how badly I want to leave this party with you but not having the balls to ask. And then you say, “I have a friend whose gallery opening is tonight. Want to come?”
And I think: I will go anywhere with you.
AMPOULES REMAINING: 1
I walk the infinite corridor, the beam of my flashlight glancing off the walls.
After a while, I stop in front of a door like all the rest.
One in a trillion, trillion, trillion.
My heart is racing, my palms sweating.
There is nothing else I want.
Just my Daniela.
I want her in a way I can’t explain.
That I don’t ever want to be able to explain, because the mystery of it is a perfect thing.
I want the woman I saw at that backyard party all those years ago.
The one I chose to make a life with, even though it meant giving up some other things I loved.
I want her.
Nothing more.
I draw in a breath.
I let it out.
And I open the door.
Snow from a recent storm has dusted the concrete and coated the generators beneath those glassless upper windows.
Even now, flurries blow in off the lake, drifting down like cold confetti.
I wander away from the box, trying to temper my hope.
This could be an abandoned power plant in South Chicago in any number of worlds.
As I move slowly down the row of generators, a glint on the floor catches my eye.