Dopamine

“It’s not a date.”

“Yeah right,” said Izzy. “Except it’s Friday night and she’s bringing you take-out. And she’s clearly in love with you, anyone would know from the way her face lights up whenever you say hi to her.”

“Marion is just friendly,” I said calmly. “She’s that way with everyone.”

“Bullshit,” Izzy said. “She’s never smiled at me like that.”

“I’m catching her up on what she missed during Wednesday’s seminar. That’s all. Nothing more to it.” I added, “Besides, very importantly, I have a boyfriend, remember? And I’m pretty sure I don’t go that way.”

“Pretty sure,” Izzy said as she mimed air quotes. “You’ve never given it any thought. Hell, you’ve never allowed yourself to give it any thought. Go on a date with her. I bet you’ll find out.” She winked.

Right, I said, Kang would really like that.

Izzy rolled her eyes so deeply they looked about to get lost in her skull. “Fuck Kang,” she said. “Remind me why you’re with him again?”

***

Izzy has not been a fan of my boyfriend ever since I let it slip that Kang believed that allowing me to leave New York for graduate school had been a great act of martyrdom on his end.

Izzy almost choked on her food. “His personal sacrifice? To allow you to go away for school?”

Ever since then, when I mentioned Kang, Izzy would roll her eyes and make some kind of snide comment like: You better lose this guy real fast. If he thinks you’re his personal property now, I can’t imagine being married to him. Or: you can do so much better than a patronizing motherfucker.

Most of the time I say nothing, or I defend him weakly: he’s not a bad guy. Or: we’ve been together for three years.

After a few rounds of this, Izzy would sigh. Please tell me the sex is mind-blowing, because I just don’t understand you otherwise.

But the truth is, the sex wasn’t great.

When I had sex with Kang for the first time — my first time having sex with anyone — I told my mother I didn’t like it that much.

My mother was taping up our drafty windows that were each year more and more defenseless against New York winters.

“Was it tolerable?”

“Yes it was,” I said.

She didn’t look at me. “That’s good,” she said.

It took courage for me to continue. “But aren’t I…,” I said, hesitating. “Aren’t I supposed to like it?”

In my mother’s small kichen, where the light was always turned down low, I couldn’t see her expression as she turned around to face me, but the disapproval in my mother’s voice was unmistakable. “Like it,” she said. “You believe that’s the most important thing now? Life is not about liking it. If I did whatever I liked to do, do you think you’d be alive today, going to college? After your father left, I did what was needed. I did what made sense.” I felt a surge of shame rising in my chest. “Kang doesn’t cheat on you. He treats you well. He is about to be a doctor.” She paused to make sure I heard those next few words. “Lots of girls would love what you have.”

To my best friend, I repeated my mom’s words, “Lot’s of girls would love what I have.”

Izzy ignored me. “Remember,” Izzy said, “it’s definitely a date if Marion brings a bottle of wine.”

***

Ten minutes before Marion was due to arrive, I was making sure my apartment looked as unromantic as possible. I didn’t want Marion to misunderstand my intentions.

Looking back, when I said, “Yeah sure, I have notes for it,” she did seem exceptionally happy. (“Beaming,” Izzy claimed.) And when she said, “Seven o’clock?” I might have agreed to it too readily (more readily than someone who might be busy because she had a boyfriend) and I might have smiled too wide for a girl who wants to communicate that she is straight (most likely straight) -- all because I felt something like joy radiate in my chest, even if it was only the platonic kind.

It wasn’t true, like Izzy claimed, that I never gave my sexuality any thought. I had, occasionally, caught myself looking at girls admiringly, and Marion in particular, who had those hands that seemed exceptionally deft and strong. Her handwriting was large and unselfconscious, and it stretched magnificently across the blackboard when she presented in seminar. When she looked down at her notes, a piece of her short, cropped hair would fall across her forehead, which she would absent-mindedly brush away with what I noticed were long and slender fingers. At those moments, she always reminded me of some kind of animal that was simultaneously carefree and alert. An antelope.

Yes, objectively speaking— if I called myself objective— I would have said Marion was attractive. I enjoyed her presence in class, her boisterous energy, her warm greeting when we ran into each other in the hall — “Hey Xiumei, you look great today” — I will admit that. But that was besides the point.

Liking something doesn’t mean we should want it, I reminded myself. Not at all.

There was a knock on the door.

***

“How do the target cells know if dopamine increase is a signal to learn or to move?” Marion tilted her head. Inquisitive. Teasing? I had to stop reading into things.

“That’s a good question,” I said. “Dopamine triggers a variety of neuro-pathways. It’s really a misnomer that it’s known as the feel-good hormone, because it doesn’t just produce pleasurable sensations.”

I was suddenly hyper-aware of the words in my mouth. Marion looked at me, her face cupped in her hands, her expressions unreadable — was she amused by me?

“I mean, it’s not that dopamine doesn’t produce pleasure, it’s just… pleasure doesn’t mean we should reinforce the behavior.”

I felt my cheeks burning, a heat that had become unbearable. It didn’t help that the daylight had been changing, and for the last few minutes, my apartment had been doused in a rich amber hue. My bare, utilitarian kitchen table became a mirrored surface for this light, and from the corner of my eye I could see the reflection of candy-hued clouds. To make matters worse, my neighbor’s daughter chose this hour to practice her piano, and for once, probably to spite me, she didn’t sound completely horrible.

The setting was suddenly romantic.

In a panic, I stood and turned to the kitchen counter. “I’m starving. Are you? Should we heat up the food you brought?”

As I gathered bowls and plates from the cabinet, I had a few precious minutes to calm myself. Marion had brought us Three Cup Chicken from the Chinese restaurant near the university. As I scooped the chunks of meat into a bowl, the dark sauce drizzled down my spoon, viscous and fragrant. It was obviously going to be delicious.

***

I couldn’t believe I had never tried it.

Restaurant food is a scam, my mom once said. For that kind of money, you can make a much bigger portion at home. What is the point?

Watching the dish rotating in the microwave oven, and smelling the sweet aroma of soy sauce and basil, I wasn’t sure I could agree with my mother anymore. I wasn’t sure I could agree with her on anything else, either.

It’s a date if she brings wine, Izzy had said. She then added: Or flowers. Or if she dressed up.

I felt a stab of disappointment. Marion had shown up as her usual self: a baseball cap, her backpack. No wine in tow. She hadn’t brought anything special.

When I finished plating the food, I had sufficiently calmed myself as to emerge from the kitchen with two plates on my hands and what I could make myself believe was a calm look on my face.

There was Marion, sitting at the table, looking up at me with her wide-ass smile. A tall bottle of wine in front of her.

And just like that, I felt my heart skip a beat.

She looked down at the glasses as she poured the wine. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing a section of her forearm. The fingers around the glass stems were slim and strong.

“You might not think wine goes with chinese food, she said. but I swear it does. You just have to find the right one. I like Merlot with the braised dishes..”

But I was barely listening. When did she get those glasses? I wondered. I then began picturing her reaching around me to access the cabinet where I’d kept them. I must have been so focused on calming myself down that I didn’t even notice her coming in — didn’t notice her body right behind mine, or her face, which must have come into proximity to mine at some point. My heart beat faster. I knew what I was feeling, but only now have I let myself admit it. It was how I had often felt around Marion. It was the feeling of a dopamine rush.

"Cheers?"

The glass she raised up was looking pretty. It was the golden hour. The wine looked almost opaque under this light, brightening at the edges to an enticing garnet hue.

"Cheers," I said.