The Mechanical Muse

Chapter 4 (Part 1)

Sunday night had been a blur, both because I felt a bit giddy over having my own profile on Project Narcissus—I had my own username and everything!—and because talking with Cassandra was too much fun. I had read somewhere, in my academic research (the sort of academic research one did in personal experience's stead), that when guys talked to girls on apps like Eros, it was the girls who had the pick of the bunch, while someone was lucky if they got even a like on their profile. But fortune's favor had smiled on me and the tables had been turned, and after Cassandra there was a long line of interested responses. Despite my luxury of choice, I couldn't do what Valdez always did and juggle multiple suitors at once: I'd be cheating on them.

And so it was just Cassandra, and after a bout of flurried conversation we agreed to a casual lunch the following day. I turned off the string quartet Project Narcissus was serenading me with and went to bed, dreamy and hopeful.

The next morning I took a shower, with conditioner this time—I had no idea what it did but it seemed like the sort of thing Macho Chris would do, combed my hair, applied a dainty dollop of gel that felt like way too much, and checked my profile again for a reference of what I was supposed to look like. This was the guy she'd agreed to meet, and just like Gatsby, to this conception I would be faithful to the very end.

As I was about to leave for lunch, Valdez returned from class. He whistled and patted me on the back.

"You look even better than the photos. Here, unbutton just the top of your polo shirt—there you go. Fake it till you make it."

"This is nothing," I lied, having never been on a date in college. The misadventures of high school sophomore year were never to be spoken of again. This was a new me. I was ready.

I spied Cassandra lingering outside the dining hall entrance and called out her name. She turned to me and grinned, brushing her jade-green shirt clean one last time for good measure.

"I didn't think you'd show up!" she exclaimed, reaching in for a handshake. Her hands were soft and felt like a warm hug—did she use lotion?

"Was I late? I'm so sorry," I started explaining, but she cut me off:

"No, because you're clearly out of my league. You cooked for frickin' Gordon Ramsay! You rode a tiger! I said my perfect morning was 'reading a cozy book in a cozy nook.' Come on, let's go in—I'm starving."

Truth be told, I didn't know too much about Cassandra—certainly less than she knew about me. It's not that I didn't care or anything last night, but I felt like the conversation was carried just by talking about me to where she didn't need to tell me much about herself. Sometimes conversations are like that.

We grabbed our food, Cassandra going for a kale salad, and I copied her. I wouldn't say I hated vegetables, but I certainly wasn't quite a vegetable aficionado: the slice of tomato in my usual burger didn't count. She smiled, and I smiled too; I could have admired her all day: her slight dimples, or how her cheeks puffed up like a cute little chipmunk when she took too big a bite, but she broke the silence at last:

"You have to tell me more about yourself. Tell me a story. Anything," she said, and I forced down my bite of kale with a swig of water.

"So let's start with the tiger. This was a trip to Malaysia, and this tiger, the biggest you'd ever seen, comes up to me. I expected it to roar, or charge, or something, but it stares me down. I see my life flash before my eyes, but I decided if I'm to face death I'll face it head on. I walk up to the tiger—it doesn't flinch—and I pat it on the head. It starts purring, and I think the next logical thing to do is mount it. So I mount the tiger, and we ride, my parents following warily behind. And it took me to this spot, you see," I said pointing to myself in the picture again, "and after the photo he took me back down and we parted ways. That's the story. It's what happened."