Page 13 of Knot Just for Show

“Yeah, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you—a fellow lovely and unique name owner—how shitty the kids at school were about my name.”

I’m not sure if it's the relatable truth in her words or her immediate slip into the use of profanity that steals a laugh from me, but my lips buzz in an unexpected snicker at her declaration.

“Oh man, you must have gotten so many awfulLittle Mermaidjokes as a kid,” I wince, realizing almost immediately where the childhood cruelties must have aimed with the name Ursula.

“Whaddayamean ‘must have gotten’—some brainiac thinks they’re the first person to sing ‘poor unfortunate souls’ at me once a fuckin’ week, my guy,” she volleys back, her own brassy laughter covering more of my snickering.

“Damn, that’s rough. Most of the time I just had people thinking that me or my parents had managed to misspell ‘Marvin’.” I smirk, looking at the pinky-purple light dancing behind the frosted glass ‘portal’ between us.

For the first time since we’ve started talking, there’s a beat of silence. I momentarily panic. Usually, at a time like this, I would rely heavily on body language and facial expressions to decide on how to proceed in conversation. Without any idea of how Ursula is actually reacting to me, I’m suddenly rudderless—unsure of where to go next.

Luckily for me, Ursula has decided to take the reins.

“So, Mavren-not-Marvin, what kind of stuff do you like to do for fun?”

Oh, maybe not so lucky after all.

I don’t think that I’ve been doing a very good job of balancing my work and mylifefor… a while now. My brain scrambles to find something to say besides the truth. That I don’t really have much recreation time, and the best times I’ve been having since I’ve opened my restaurant have largely just been hanging out with my sister and her packmates on their living room couch every 2-5 months.

I must be taking longer than I realized to respond, because Ursula clears her throat gently, as if to make sure I’m still there on the other side of the wall.

“As lame as it’s going to sound, I haven’t had a whole-lot of free time lately.” The ‘lately’ is a little white lie, but I don’t want her to think I’m a totally boring work-a-holic, right off the bat—so I allow myself this bit of untruth.

“Ok, but when you do have free time, what kind of stuff do you like to do?” she presses cautiously.

Again, I feel a surge of nervous embarrassment at how difficult it is for me to find an answer to this question. I’ve been so focused on my career, on my professionalfuture—that everything else in my life has taken a backseat. Despite Delia’s constant warnings that I have begun to lose myself and parts of my identity to the cult of productivity and success, I had insisted that things weren’t that bad.

In just the beginning of this conversation with Ursula, I can see just how dire the situation has truly gotten, and the outlook is distinctly not good.

“I like checking out different markets. Seasonal and specialty spots are my absolute favorites,” I manage to get out before another awkward silence takes hold.

“Do you have a favorite local spot?” Ursula inquires, her interest seemingly genuine.

“I mean, I think the Studio City farmer’s market is pretty solid.” I shrug, her easy conversational tone already lulling me back into a comfortable rhythm.

“Yeah, it’s not as much of a zoo as the Hollywood farmer’s market, but it ain’t no Atwater Marche, that’s for sure,” she scoffs playfully.

“Ah, you’ve been to Montreal a few times, hmm?” I kick up my feet and stretch out across the couch, focusing on the tone of her voice along with her accent. Now I’m starting to think it could be Boston, but I could still be off.

“Back when I used to live on the east coast, it was cheaper to drive North than it was to hop on a plane to Paris,” she laughs. “Not like I’m saying that Montreal and Paris are substitutes for one another—I could get flayed for making that kind of suggestion,” Ursula jokes.

“Nah, I get it. It’s got that European flavor,” I assure her.

“Now that I’m on the left-coast, it’s fucking expensive to go to either.” She lets go a bitter laugh.

“When did you relocate out here?” I float the question casually, though I’m more than a little self conscious that I’ve gone this long without asking Ursula about herself.

“A few years ago,” she answers quickly at first—then trails off for a conspicuous amount of time before adding, “I came out here for one job, and ended up in a different industry entirely. Kinda got trapped by marginal success.” Though the laugh that follows is meant to sound as brassy and assured as earlier, I can sense the unease lurking just beneath.

Since the question is practically just dangling there, I make the obvious inquiry:

“So, whatdoyou do for work?”

A chain of nervous laughter follows before she gives the breathy non-answer:

“Do you promise not toimmediatelyjudge me?”

“Are you a stripper or something?” The words are out of my mouth before I can actually use my brain. She’s lulled me into such a sense of ease and security that it just came out of my mouth before my thoughts could catch up.

---