The Laws of Attraction by Carol Willis

The skirl of Citizens Arrest fills the stairwell of my walk-up. The electric guitar twangs and pulses through the walls; my key chain vibrates in the door lock, sending judders up my arm, rattling my teeth. I thump on my neighbor’s wall.

“Sorry, cielo!” Manolo yells.

The music stops but my head still throbs.

The movie had been terrible. “It’s a romcom. You’ll love it!” Sylvia, my best friend, and eternal optimist had gushed. Chad called it a meet-cute. There was a meet-up. Truth by halves, like my date with Chad. We met up, but it wasn’t cute.

Chad blathered on and on. He is an aspiring screenwriter-director. Like most artists, he rambled about the “business” and his “craft.”  Dissecting unremarkable movies with unremarkable observations as if he were parsing the laws of physics, which he knows nothing about. He also kept calling me Marty.

“Marty, did you see how the cinematographer achieved that one scene?”

“Mattie.”

“What? Oh, right. Anyway, he achieved an ephemeral quality of light and dark, by co-opting night and day in a synergism that elevated the film from the mundane to the truly sublime.”

Now that the date is over, I am restless and wound up. I start to text Sylvia but erase it and toss my phone on the counter annoyed. I’d only gone out with Chad to please Sylvia something, I realize, I’m always trying to do. After the movie, Chad and I went for coffee. He kept playing with the salt shaker and slapping his hands on the table. I kept checking the clock on the wall above his shoulder. I can confirm that time slows down when you’re not having a good time. It really should be part of the theory of relativity. 

 vow to never give in to Sylvia again. She says dating is good for my “socialization” which makes me sound like a primate at the zoo.

“Honey, you’re too hard on people.” My mom’s voice floats from the corner of the living room. I should have known she’d be here.

“Mom, go away.”

“But you want me here.”

“No. I don’t.”

Mom sits in the armchair next to the balcony overlooking the apartment’s swimming pool. Underwater lights outline the simple rectangle in the courtyard below. No one is swimming at this hour. Manolo, my neighbor, and part-time pool cleaner is now walking slowly along the deck skimming the water with a net. Mom’s faded pink nightgown still has splotches of yellow egg spilled down the front from the last time I saw her. Her short gray hair is a rat’s nest, uncombed and flattened on one side.           

Mom has been dead for over a year, but it doesn’t keep her from nagging me in the middle of the night.

“Chad seemed like a nice young man and passionate about his career.”

“Just because he slaps the table every five seconds doesn’t make him passionate.” I flop down on the couch and rue talking out loud to a ghost.

My mother says this is perfectly natural. “Matilda, everyone talks to themselves. And someone like you, with all those numbers and equations taking up space in your head, it’s no wonder you talk to yourself. You have to get all the words out just to make room for everything else.”

On nights like these when my mother appears, she stays until I’ve worked through whatever conversation or séance this is. I know these midnight visitations represent some unresolved issue with myself or my mother or some entangled combination of both.

The next morning, Sylvia texts to see how my date with Chad went and admonishes me for not texting the night before. It strikes me how much she reminds me of my mother—supportive and a little pushy.

Sylvia and I are both graduate students studying theoretical physics and cosmology. There are few women in our field— scattered around the globe like glass marbles. If you added us all up, we would fit into a small pouch. Sylvia and my minds and bodies are constantly at odds with one another. Our minds crave one thing, our bodies crave other things entirely: Food, sleep, sex, and not necessarily in that order.

I text her a thumb’s down. She texts back an eye roll, then something about a guy she met at the gym. I don’t respond. Sylvia means well. She has a boyfriend. Jared. Someone she’s dated since college who followed her to Chicago.

Sylvia’s intellect is housed in a body often associated with serving either beverages or men. It is an occupational hazard. At her first conference as a graduate student, dressed in a conservative white blouse and black pencil skirt, she was mistaken for one of the servers. She is a gifted people-person—loving and loveable—an odd combination considering she spends all her nights exploring planets without them.

She continues to text me about Tad, the new guy, but I ignore her. I will pay at some point for this. Retribution Sylvia-style will include some sort of girl’s outing—Spa, pedicures, and copious amounts of sparkling wine.

Tonight, I can’t sleep and stare out the window. Manolo and his boyfriend linger in the courtyard, two silhouettes against the swimming pool. Mom appears in the armchair and follows my gaze out the window. Without preamble, she says, “Your dad loved being a pool cleaner. He loved L.A. Outside all day in the sun by the water.”

As I watch Manolo wrap a protective arm around his boyfriend and enter the pool house, I feel as if I have forgotten something deeply important. “Mom, aren’t you still mad at dad? The police arrested him. I was only twelve!”

“Not the police—the highfalutin Hollywood lawyer herself. Came home early, heard noises coming from the pool house. Caught your daddy with her husband. Citizen’s arrest on the spot. ‘Lewd and lascivious behavior’ it was called back then.”   

She is quiet, her face full of remembered sadness.

“Of course, I was mad. Hurt, mostly. But I forgave him eventually—like you need to. And stop punishing every boy in the world. Your daddy was a good man. His only crime was trying to be someone he wasn’t. You can’t fool the laws of attraction.”

“I’m not—”

“Sweetheart, the problem is your expectations are too high. You think every man is supposed to be perfect. Every conversation deep and meaningful. Sylvia is right. You need to let go a little. Just relax. Enjoy whatever…or whomever.” She gives me a knowing look. “Give things a chance. Sometimes, love comes from unexpected places…or people.”

“I’m not looking for love.”

She swats a hand in my direction and snorts. “Everyone is looking for love. That’s all your daddy was looking for. It’s the greatest truth in that whole wide universe of yours.” 

It’s my turn to be quiet as I consider this. I suddenly miss her so terribly; my chest feels like it’s carrying the weight of the moon. Tears pool in my eyes.

“Mom?” My shaky voice echoes in the empty room. “Why do I keep seeing you?” I ask as if she could really tell me. 

“Oh, sweetheart, I think you know.”

On Monday, Sylvia and I have lunch together outside at our favorite spot on a park bench. It’s just the two of us, a respite from the clamor and hubbub of our morning lectures and committee meetings. Sylvia feigns exasperation when I refused to go out with Tad-rhymes-with-Chad. “You need someone in your life, Mats.”

“I have you, I don’t need anyone else,” I respond without thinking, surprised at just how true this is.

“You’ll always have me,” Sylvia says softly and for once, I don’t think she is teasing me.

“Seriously, I’m taking a break from dating for a while,” I tell her.

Teasing-Sylvia is back and says I’m overreacting, insisting I owe her for matching-making services. But I know it’s just an excuse for her to drag me to the Spa. We sign up together and get a “couple’s package” that includes side-by-side massages.  “Don’t forget the Rosé,” Sylvia texts. “You’re buying.”

Our designated Spa-day is Saturday. Most of our days roll into another in one long stream of space-time, so to devote an entire day feels extravagant.

Sylvia was made for the Spa. Her good looks, breezy manner, and graciousness make her the perfect client. She is one of those rare women that is comfortable in her own body. Sylvia strips naked and lays on her stomach, facing me. I leave my underwear on and focus on the fluty music in the background. She smiles at me and chats easily. I try not to imagine her and Jared having sex.

“I think you should give Tad—”

“Can we not talk about Tad or anything that rhymes with his name?”

“You’re grumpy. Did you bring the wine?”

“Yes, although I’m not sure the Spa approves of BYOB,” I whisper.

“You worry too much.”

My massage is warm and soothing. Sylvia chatters about Jared and her voice lulls me to sleep. I wake up when the masseuse asks us to turn over. I carefully keep myself covered with a towel but I sneak a peek at Sylvia and glimpse her breasts, soft and pink like her cheeks. Deep down, something shifts, setting off a meteor shower inside my chest.

Sylvia blurts, “Jared wants to get married.” I can tell by her voice that she considers Jared a problem to be solved like one of her equations.

“Are you in love with him?” I ask, and almost feel the earth tilt on its axis.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until she looks at me with her large soulful eyes and shakes her head slightly. She looks away and stares up at the ceiling as if not being in love with him is a personal failing. She reaches out takes my hand and holds it briefly while meteoroids continue to rain down inside me.

We are warm and toasty from all the personal attention and shared bottle of Rosé. Sylvia asks if she can come home with me tonight. As I put the key in the lock, I almost turn to warn her about my mother. I catch myself in time but steal a glance at the armchair as we tumble through the front door. The last touches of sunset hover over the skyline and the pool in the courtyard is a warm rectangle of yellow light.

Sylvia is uncharacteristically quiet and I realize how much of this day was orchestrated to avoid Jared. This humbles me as I stand in the kitchen for a moment, conflicted over my new feelings for my best friend.

We decide to order Chinese. I busy myself answering the door and paying the delivery man.

Sylvia and I eat cross-legged on the couch and talk of a new exoplanet she discovered. If her observations are confirmed, then she will be able to choose the name. “I can have my own exoplanet, how cool is that?”

It is cool, I say.

She avoids the topic of Jared until I can’t any longer.

“So, what are you going to do?” I study her face. I am jealous and hate myself for it.

Sylvia stares out the window for a long while before answering. She is contemplative and I am touched. Like bearing witness to a comet that flies by only once every few decades, this mood is rare and special.

“I like Jared, but I don’t want to marry him. I didn’t even want him to move here. I know that’s not fair. I should’ve told him long ago.” Sylvia sighs after this speech. She looks tired and has a faraway look in her eyes that I can’t decipher. 

For all her easy chatter, it is not like Sylvia to share so much of herself. I think I have underestimated the depth of her feelings, or just how much it was weighing on her mind.

“He was angry. Hurt, mostly. He assumed we would marry.” She pauses, reaching for my hand. “Can I spend the night?”

I take her hand in mine and squeeze it, hoping to reassure her. I don’t want to let go.

I forget my mom and we spend the evening talking as Manolo’s punk rock music thrums and drones next door.

“I can sleep on the couch…if I have to,” Sylvia says with a sheepish grin.

The city lights twinkle and blink, forming tiny galaxies in her eyes. I glance at the empty armchair and am suddenly eager to leave the living room. I assure her that it isn’t necessary and we agree to share my bed.

I lie awake, hyperaware of Sylvia’s body next to mine. I feel her looking at me.

“Mattie, are you awake?” Sylvia’s voice is light as cosmic dust.

“Yes.”

“Can we talk? I can’t sleep.”

Sylvia is resting on her side, head propped on her elbow. Her hips and shoulders are like the soft curves of the universe and shimmer in the streetlight; reddish tints in her hair gleam and frame her face. My head is still heavy from wine and I tell her she is beautiful in the moonlight.

“It’s a new moon. We can’t even see it yet, Mats.” She gently taps my nose, chiding me.

“I know. Moonlight sounded better than by the glow of the halogen streetlights.” I clasp my hands under my face. I wonder if she can see me smiling.

“I didn’t know you were a romantic,” she teases.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I say, not knowing at all what I mean.

“Mattie?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t love Jared. I don’t think I ever loved him.”

Sylvia’s voice is soft and low, like a confession.

“What are you going to do?” I ask; a co-conspirator. I feel guilty for how good this makes me feel.

Sylvia tells me she is leaving Jared and I listen. Tears, like glistering stars, drip from the corner of her eyes. I reach out and wipe them away, amazed at how natural the gesture comes to me. I slip into this role comfortably.

“Have you ever felt like you’re not living your own life? Like, you’re living someone else’s?” She reaches out and tucks a strand behind my ear.

“You mean like trying to live up to someone else’s expectations?” I ask, but I can’t hear my own voice for the blood whooshing through my ears. Her touch electrifies me. Gamma-ray bursts explode under my skin. 

“Maybe. I never wanted to live with Jared; it just seemed like something I should want to do. Does that make sense?”

I want to tell her none of this makes sense. Yet, it does. Completely. And for the first time, I understand my dad; perhaps feel what he felt. My face and neck are aflame. I smell the subtle scent of her floral perfume and whiff her minty toothpaste. Heat radiates from her body and all I want is for her to touch me again; comb her fingers through my hair.

Desire hits me like a solar flare hurled through the window. I caress her face and outline her lips with my thumb.

“Mats?”

“Syl?” The word barely escapes my lips; I cannot breathe.

“You and me…,” she murmurs, the words orbit one another like two charged particles.

A loose strand of her hair swirls slowly down her arm and I twirl it around my finger.

“I think it’s always been you and me,” she says at last.

We reach for one another; our attraction collapsing the space between us.

We fall; still falling in love as we make love through the night and under the paling stars of morning.

Carol Willis

Image: Pixabay.com – rumpled bed with white covers