Page 9 of A Merry Christmas for Art… and His Tentacles

“Ok, so when the lab techs asked you about doing stuff outside of work, like getting coffee, or ‘hanging,’ or if someone asks about getting lunch or doing something after work, they’re moving into fun mode. Or if people are talking about their weekends or their plans or their family or vacation—that’s all personal non-work stuff, and so it requires the non-work approach to conversation. Does that make sense?” I ask.

“So what am I supposed to do in the non-work conversation? Just stay silent?” Art asks.

“I guess you just kind of answer. Like if you don’t want to get hot chocolate, a simple, ‘No thanks’ would work. And then if someone else gets hot chocolate, you just let them drink it and enjoy it without letting them know how much sugar and caffeine it has,” I tell Art.

“I don’t know exactly how much sugar and caffeine it has, so I wouldn’t provide that information,” Art answers.

I laugh. “But even if you did, you don’t have to share it. Non-work or fun situations just call for a yes or no thank you. Or if someone is talking about their family or vacation, just nod along and say it sounds like fun.”

“What if they’re talking about something horrible? Am I supposed to lie? Flying through the trees on a small wire with a harness on doesn’t sound like fun at all,” Art insists, obviously remembering the last conversations about vacations where he’d told a lab tech they were likely to plummet to their death.

“Different people have fun in different ways. Some people think shrimp are gross, or they hate swimming. If they told you all the reasons swimming was awful and shrimp were bad, you wouldn’t be happy,” I say, hoping the comparison works.

Art looks thoughtful, so he must get it at least a little bit.

“Sometimes,” I add gently, “it’s good to try things, even if they don’t sound like they’ll be fun.”

Art looks at me. “I am not putting on a harness and careening through the trees.”

“No,” I laugh. “I wouldn’t expect that. But maybe you could try a sip of hot chocolate? You might even like the taste, and surely the caffeine and sugar will not be that detrimental if you have it one time.”

Art glances at me, then glances at the ice, where skaters are venturing out again. I almost laugh thinking about him weighing the pros and cons of more ice skating versus trying a sugary and caffeinated drink.

As he contemplates the ice rink, one of his tentacles is wavering closer and closer to me, until eventually it rests lightly on my shoulder. I try not to gasp as it reaches over and rests against the bare skin on the back of my neck.

I’m not sure what sensory input Art gets from his tentacles, but theydoseem to have a mind of their own—more than once Art has seemed embarrassed by what his tentacles have done, and I’ve seen them catch falling things when his back was turned. It’s kind of amazing. I read once that each tentacle in a cephalopod has its own mini-brain, and so that would explain why they sometimes seem to do things independent of Art.

Still, there must be some sensory input to Art from them, because as his tentacle gently caresses the back of my neck, Art looks over, his face flushed as he starts to stutter.

Before he can get out what is probably an apology, I look down and place my hand along the tentacle that is lying across the bench, watching as the tip bends up toward me.

I run my hand along the tentacle and look up to see Art looking flustered. “Do you feel what they feel?”

It’s probably an inappropriate question. At least, the way I’m thinking about it ishighlyinappropriate. But Art doesn’t need to know where I’m thinking of having his tentacles.

“Each arm does have a cluster of nerve cells that’s often called a mini-brain, and these allow my tentacles to work independently. They can gather sensory information, including taste, smell, feeling, and color, but yes, they do export that data back to my central brain,” Art explains. He’s trying to look scientific, but I can tell he’s vaguely uncomfortable. I don’t know if it’s from talking about his tentacles, or the fact that his tentacle is currently exploring my neck, and now I know he is tasting and feeling my skin.

I smile at him gently. He can taste and feel me anytime he wants, and I think about saying that, but I don’t want to fluster Art any more than he already is.

“How about some of that hot chocolate?” I ask instead, keeping my hand on his tentacle as we both rise up. He still looks flustered, but he agrees.

We walk all the way to the snack stand with one of his tentacles in my hand and one still lightly resting on the back of my neck, but I’m definitely not complaining.

Art

Sometimes, I don’t understand social rules, but there is one rule I understand very well: I’m not supposed to taste things with my tentacles in public. All cephalopods know this. People will think we’re weird if we dip our tentacles in our soup before we take a bite or graze the top of our pastries with our suckers.

Right now my tentacle is tasting the back of Dean Miller’s neck, and I can’t seem to control it. Dean Miller’s flavor is slightly salty with a musk that’s very distracting. I want to drag my tentacles down his body to taste him everywhere, which makes me grateful we’re bundled up for the cold weather. Who knows what my tentacles would do if we were at the beach instead of the ice skating rink and Dean Miller wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“Would you like your own hot chocolate, or would you like to share mine?” he asks casually, as if it’s perfectly normal for a guy to taste him while he’s standing in line for refreshments.

“Is it common for friends to share hot beverages?”

He smiles. “Not really.”

“Then we should probably get our own, since the purpose of this outing is to teach me social skills.”

The couple in front of us leaves with their hot cocoa. Dean Miller steps up to the counter and looks at me expectantly. Right. I’m supposed to order our drinks.

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