I Wonder...

“Half of your friends are imaginary, you don’t see anything wrong with that?” my therapist asked.

The shower is a strange space, it seems to be particularly suitable for the wandering of the mind. My thoughts switch from memory to memory, as though I was idly flipping through ephemeral television channels of consciousness. I push the conversation with my therapist out of my head.

I reach for my conditioner, lather, rinse.

“You’re supposed to leave it in for a few minutes, you know,” Gerald the frog tells me. He rests on the windowsill which overlooks my apartment’s parking lot. He doesn’t seem to mind the cold, evening breeze which filters through the open window; he’s imaginary, after all. But I, on the other hand, do mind. I close the window, and look Gerald in the eyes.

“And how am I supposed to know that?”

“Ah, there’s these strange glyphs on the back of the bottle, they tend to convey important information like that, especially when printed on a product label,” Gerald opines.

He’s as sarcastic as always.

“I don’t need your shit tonight, Gerald, I have a very important date,” I tell him.

“I see. Good luck, pray they don’t ask you to read the strange symbols on the dinner menu...” Gerald says as he leaps through the ceiling, phasing through it.

“Oh, fuck off…” I mutter under my breath.

I arrive to the restaurant ten minutes early. This covers all my options. If she arrives fashionably late, I’ll of course tell her I’d pulled in just five minutes before her. I confirm my reservation with the host, a wide-eyed high schooler who must feel out of her depth at an upscale French joint like this.

I pull my jacket tight around me, the night air’s become so chilled it bites. A large toucan lands on the valet desk, and turns to me, as though sizing me up.

Imaginary, I know, as toucans prefer far more temperate regions.

I wait another fifteen minutes.

A tap on my shoulder.

I turn, and I’m greeted by the sight of my date, a gorgeous middle school teacher named Therese. She’s much taller than she looked in her pictures. She smells like lavender.

We exchange a hug, and make the usual small talk.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she tells me, “I got caught in traffic, you know how this part of town can be…”

“Oh, it’s no problem at all! I actually just got here five minutes ago myself.”

A moment of silence.

“It’s better that we be honest with each other, alright?”

What?

I’m lost for words.

“Ah, I’m lost for words,” I tell her, deciding to try the whole ‘honesty’ thing.

She points to the intersection outside the restaurant. There’s been an accident, uniformed officers wave cars one by one through a street meant for four lanes.

“The ‘traffic’ I mentioned was just out there. I saw you out here waiting for me. Plus, you’ve developed quite the shiver. Not the kind of shiver you get after waiting five minutes.”

I have no idea what to say.

“I have no idea what to say,” I tell her.

A giant monarch butterfly lands on her shoulder and speaks to me with a deep, authoritative voice.

“She’s not worth it. If this is how she treats you for getting to a date early, how would she treat you if you missed a birthday? An anniversary? You know you’re the forgetful type. This thing just doesn’t have legs, I’m telling you,” the butterfly says, “three months tops.”

I take a closer look at it.

Hooves. Obviously imaginary.

“Is there something on my shoulder?” Therese asks, adjusting the strap of her grey, satin dress.

“No, no there’s not. Hey, about just a second ago. My bad, I just thought I’d-”

“It’s alright, I was just pulling your leg. I like a guy with a sense of humor,” she says, winking at me. She offers me her hand. “Shall we?”

*****

I’ve been ‘afflicted’ ever since I was a kid. You tend to learn the rules of such a condition pretty quickly.

First, no talking about the figments to anyone other than family and your doctor. Otherwise, trouble is made. This guideline was engraved on my soul by the age of ten.

Second, it’s alright to talk to the figments so long as it’s not around anyone else, including family. Ignoring them doesn’t make them go away. I’ve tried. A full year of the silent treatment, their incidence rate remained constant.

Third (associated with the second rule), lead your family to believe it’s under control. That’s easy, since it is under control, at least probably. The subtext of this rule is as to how often my figments talk to me. If it’s every once in a while, maybe a few times a year, my family can accept that, it’s a small enough problem to push to the place of the mind where the issue would be accepted without ever causing enough discomfort to ‘fix.’

I’ve had a therapist since middle school, and while the person listening to my problems has changed, the almost-but-not-quite-understanding nods remain the same. I learned to deal with the feeling of being patronized.

My current therapist is concerned with the condition advancing. I’ve told her it’s not a problem. I’ve been afflicted for some time now, and I’ve learned to tell the difference between a figment and reality. There’s always a clue, a tell.

“It’s just a matter of time,” she tells me.

I think she’s wrong.

*****

We’re led to our table, it’s too small for two people, but that’s the point at a restaurant like this. Cram it as full as you can, overwork the chefs, maximize your profit. As long as it’s not packed enough to affect your Yelp reviews, it’ll all work out.

Therese leaves for the restroom, to ‘freshen up,’ she tells me.

The host leaves, and the waiter arrives, filling up my water. He’s a middle aged man with a goatee that can only be described with a phrase like ‘an effort was made.’

“Can I get you started with an appetizer?” he asks.

“He probably tried and failed to be a studio artist,” Macabre the rabbit tells me, his bright green eyes sparkling.

The rabbit’s imaginary, of course. And incredibly negative.

“Just thank your lucky stars you didn’t end up like that guy,” the rabbit continues.

Macabre must have hopped onto the table while I was looking at the waiter. Once the waiter leaves, I’ll shoo him off. I tell myself to be more careful, especially on an important date.

“Nothing yet, I’m waiting for my date,” I say, doing my best to shoot my waiter a smile.

“Ah, excellent. I’ll be back when they arrive!”

With that, the waiter struts off. He never told me his name.

I see Therese walking back from the restroom. She somehow still glows despite the dim lighting of the restaurant. I push Macabre off the table, he phases through the wall (a ‘tell’ he shares with Gerald).

“Alright, what looks good?” she asks me, picking up her menu.

“Good question.”

“Classic miscue, jackass,” Macabre says, his head phasing through the wall just to spite me, “she set you up to say something like ‘you do, sweetheart’.” He phases back out of the restaurant.

Macabre is an idiot, and I hate him.

I look at the menu.

Come to think of it, I hate French food. The portions are always so small, and the prices so high… but this is what she wanted, and I’m in no position to turn down a first date with someone like her.

“What about… do you like seafood?” I ask her.

“Hmm… you know, I think I found something. Should we call our waiter over?”

I scan the restaurant, and spot him. I wave him over.

“I’ll take the clams, and could we get some bread?”

“You know what, I’ll take that too,” she says.

“Alright, make that two orders of the clams.

Our waiter smiles, nods, and leaves us.

I still don’t know his name.

A fight between two customers catches my eye. No one else seems to notice. An elderly man swings and misses at a child. Well, he doesn’t necessarily miss, the child leaps out of the way with uncharacteristic speed. He shoots for a takedown, and tackles the old man to the ground. The impact is strong enough to make the water in my glass shimmer.

I take a closer look.

Horns on the old man. The child has a tail.

Imaginary, of course. A tricky one, but like I said, I can always catch it.

“What, am I not interesting enough for you?”

I look back to Therese, and see a hint of a smile forming on her face. She’s not offended, just curious.

“I… I get distracted sometimes…” I say, trailing off.

I wish I could tell her the truth. I don’t get that urge very often, but I feel it tonight. Maybe if I could just tell her I see things sometimes, she’d understand. Disclosure is an important part of getting closer to someone, maybe if I tell her she’ll find me more interesting.

She won’t.

She’d play out the rest of the date, kiss me on the cheek, and never talk to me again. She’d tell her friends that she won’t trust dating apps anymore, they’ll all laugh about it over a glass of wine. I’m not the smartest, but this, I know.

I’ve been quiet for some time now. How long? A minute? Less? More?

“It’s fine, I get distracted too,” she says, laughing. “When I was little, I had imaginary friends, and to be honest, I didn’t see-”

“the problem with that,” we both say.

We look into each other's eyes, then laugh. A deep laugh. The type of laugh that comes from a place of honesty. The type I don’t get to share very often.

She talks about her job. I listen.

I tell her she could easily teach at a college with her qualifications. She says she likes the simplicity of middle schoolers. The angst of kids on the brink of puberty is hilarious to her.

We talk about movies, the city, and the fact that she doesn’t like French restaurants either. “I thought it was a safe choice,” she tells me, giggling.

It’s the best date I can remember.

We finish a bottle of wine, and decide that’s as good a time as any to leave. Like reading the tea leaves, or something.

It’s not always easy to find metaphors at times like these.

Therese uses the restroom once more before we leave, and our waiter comes back to the table again. I see a bead of sweat on his brow, he hastily wipes it off before speaking to me.

“So, sir… the wine is on the house tonight, don’t worry about it at all,” he says. He puts his hand on my shoulder, knowingly. “Happens to the best of us.”

He departs. I sit, confused. Then, a horrifying thought.

She just left, didn’t she? The waiter probably saw her leave through the window, didn’t he. Fuck, fuck, I knew it. It was the imaginary friend thing, wasn’t it? She was probably just biding her time, waiting for a chance to leave… fuck. Good thing I hate restaurants like these, I’ll never show my face-

I feel her warmth as she grasps my arm. Slowly, the storm in my mind calms, the waters become still. She… she stayed. That doesn’t always happen for me.

We exit the restaurant, and somehow she glows even in the dull orange streetlights.

My heart skips a beat when she looks into my eyes.

I ignore the beetle-like creature waltzing across the street behind her. It’s imaginary, after all. And I can always tell the difference.

We remain looking at each other, simply basking in the moment. We’ll never get this time back again. We know it. All we can do is photograph this moment internally, a night that the subtle haze of a bit of wine can't distort. The memory will remain.

Then, the still, peaceful surface of the moment is broken, she leans in. I do the same. It feels…

Natural.

Our lips touch, and a bolt of electricity runs from my mouth to my toes, reminding me of every nerve ending in my body. It makes me feel alive.

I feel her breath, she feels mine, I move to deepen the kiss.

Her lips part, and I move forward, cautiously, but excitedly with my tongue.

Scales.

With a start, I separate from her. Maybe, she was trying to bite my lip… it doesn’t matter. I lean in again… and this time I’m sure.

Her tongue flicks across the inside of my mouth, and I feel each individual scale as they pass across my tongue, as though showing themselves for inspection. The wine makes my mind a bit foggy, yet the truth still finds a way to clobber me: that’s her tell.

I could rationalize the glow easily enough, and the fact she was just like me, down to having imaginary friends of her own? A stroke of luck ordained by the cosmos.

You can’t rationalize a tongue of scales.

They all have a tell. And up to this moment, I could always recognize it.

Maybe my therapist is right. Maybe it’s getting worse.

She moves closer to me, our faces just inches apart. Her head moves to my left shoulder, and she whispers…

“With a condition like yours… does it matter if I’m real or not?”

Her voice comes from all directions in my mind. I know I’m manufacturing it now, every bit of her, her voice, her eyes, her skin, her dress…

Knowing changes nothing. Not the flutter of my heartbeat, the warmth despite standing out in the cold, the fact that she's the only thing in focus. She says… “Does it matter if I’m real or not?

I wonder.