God is an Astronaut Read Free

repertoire, better than the threadbare “I’m rubber, you’re glue,” the tired “I know you are but what am I,” and the reliable old standby, “I forgot.”
     
    But “pretty much useless” or no, that doesn’t stop me. I don’t believe I’ve been to Zingerman’s since last year, when you and I used to get coffee there, but last Friday, between classes, I walked over to Kerrytown. By the time I climbed the stairs and stepped into the deli’s half gloom, I’d completely forgotten what it was I’d come there for. I fingered the golden bottles of imported olive oil, the dusty bread rounds. I dallied in front of the dessert case, eyeing all those jeweled fruit tarts while people streamed in and out of the door behind me, my arms tucked behind my back, shuffling my feet in a silly, adolescent, pining sort of way. A man behind the counter was flaying a salmon in knife flashes so deft, so graceful, that the gestures looked a work of art—the slithering red flesh between his fingers, the silvery scales raining down around his ankles and collecting in the cuffs of his blue jeans. I am not pining away for anything. I would like to make that clear. But I never did remember what I wanted. Finally I gave up and bought a $10 rosemary baguette and a weedy gladiolus from the display by the door. Plants are like puppies to me—as you know. It’s impossible for me to pass them by, especially the scruffy, rough-around-the-edges ones.
     
    I was walking back to campus, baguette under one arm, gladiolus under the other, when a woman wearing a blue velvet jacket accosted me on the sidewalk. “Jess?” she said. “Jess, is that you?” I had never laid eyes on this woman before, I swear to God, but there she was, holding onto my sleeve and pinning me down as if she had some sort of claim on me. Paula was right. If I hadn’t been distracted by all those useless thoughts, I might have been quick enough to sidestep her, but it was too late, I was trapped. I know I’m paranoid about people thinking I’m standoffish, but it’s not intentional. Remember that time we went out to lunch a few years ago? That time you snuck a tortilla chip onto the shoulder of my sweater while we were walking back to campus, and I traipsed along like an idiot for I don’t know how many blocks before I looked down and noticed it there? Well, laugh if you will, but it’s only gotten worse, and in the past couple of weeks I stopped even caring—when I see people coming for me all I want is to get away, before someone tells me something else I don’t want to hear.
     
    So I didn’t even bother to feign recognition, to try to feel my way into the conversation, groping discreetly for clues, the way you’re supposed to. I just stared blankly at her. Blue Velvet Lady was positively shimmering in that jacket, but it was waaaay too cold for something that thin. My baguette knuckles were turning bright red.
     
    “Jess, Jess,” she said, shaking my elbow as though she were trying to resuscitate me. “I heard what happened. I read that article in the Post , and when I saw how they quoted Liam, I told Mike—”
     
    “I’m sorry,” I cut her off. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. My name is Priscilla.” Priscilla is the name of Corinne’s latest imaginary friend, the newest member of her coterie—an exceptional collection of individuals, so my daughter tells me. I have no idea what possessed me to say it. But I didn’t wait for a response. I just put my head down and kept walking into the wind. By the time I got back to my office, the baguette was nearly broken in half—I’d been throttling it that hard. So I threw it into the trash, that stupid ten-dollar loaf of bread.
     
    “Well, who was she?” Liam said later that night. We were on our way to Detroit—running late for Liam’s nine p.m. flight to Tucson. I was the one behind the wheel. Everyone on 94 drives like they want desperately to die; they can’t even be