Daisy Nakasone does not ponder the name of the game she plays. She knows that it is routine and to some degree necessary. She often drafts her messages in notes, most of which will never be sent. This meticulousness she once considered dawdling, though now she accepts precision’s necessity.
When they message her like this, with the faintest scent of need, of not having “it,” she is ultimately more disappointed in herself than them. But the initial splashes of self-aversion, of disgust and disbelief, no longer make her prune. It’s not as though she hopes or anticipates they will fall short; often they do not. Now, falling short is a part of the process rather than a failure of character, but incomplete passes still sting.
Daisy knows it’s a game, a game she plays when better distractions are lacking. Her days once were filled with the intra/extra- curricular Asian private school essentials: piano, soccer, the like. Although she maintains a full load of responsibility and heavy backpack, it seems there is more time now and, despite the demands and stress, an excess of energy to be expelled on who knows what.
So texting the boys is a low fidelity way to discharge the buzzing in her solar plexus, or at least distract from it, or more accurately, ascribe it to something. Daisy knows this, that her ultimate aim is neither companionship nor sex, that that which she seeks lacks a particular valence, arousal. It’s as though her torso is a surface that needs to be sterilized as a matter of prosaic maintenance.
She drafts a characteristically tactful response, a soft, but legible declination. A shrink once remarked to her that she had “excellent boundaries,” the fact of which Daisy felt neither responsible for nor proud of. She removes an exclamation point and sends “appreciate you reaching out. truly sorry you’re feeling that way. It’s best I do my own thing this weekend. The game will be fun more without me 🙃”
She immediately wishes she deleted “more.” Daisy stares at the text and catches a glimpse of her reflection in the phone. Her reflection is affable to her. It is a reminder of baseline okayness. That things are good enough. Her concern alleviates. Her phone locks itself.
Daisy reflects and cannot recall what Wyatt looks like. His Graphic T-Shirt is in her mind’s eye, a screen printed Smart Car labeled “Hop On My Pussy Magnet,” but his face does not render. The shirt was quite funny to her. He wore it shamelessly. But he was neither loud nor outspoken like the shirt. He was funny and kind. Thinking about this almost makes her want to go to the football game after all. The buzz returns.
Wyatt is needy, she remembers. And not in the pussy, or girlfriend sense, but in a more general sense, in need of higher level direction, of broad libido. It’s more tolerable, in some ways actually charming, compared to the nice guys. But in some ways it’s more concerning; Wyatt doesn’t seem to want anything in particular. It feels as though he is asexual with regard to life itself: no urge for sex, his career, weekends, everything. That he’s just going to the football game because he has literally no idea what else to do with a Saturday night. That his first football game conjures zero excitement, curiosity. That he is legitimately, totally confused, a child stumbling into a regulatory business seminar.
Daisy groks all this from two, two-hour hang outs with Wyatt, and his last three messages, all of which occurred in the past four days. From afar, Wyatt was on her radar for weeks. Daisy even felt slight giddy pangs w/r/t his height and ostensible indifference, indifference she now reads as aloofness-in-the-bad-way.
“Join me for the Utah game?! not sure how to do this sort of thing, need backup,” he wrote. To Wyatt’s benefit, Daisy understands that this “thing” is in fact the football game, rather than asking her out. He doesn’t know how to do that either, but he doesn’t seem that attached to doing it right. In that regard he is sexy. Conversely, his cluelessness about the event itself, its spectacle and tradition, reveals uninspiring ethos, (albeit admirably sincere).
It’s not as though Daisy herself is lukewarm on football. There is certainly some pathway along which the event could be enjoyable, even radically so. With the right attitude, weather, group, she’s certain it could be a blast. But with Wyatt, it will be like going to a museum with a finance major, at best. Daisy understands the rules of the game far better than Wyatt, a fact that greatly annoys her.
So the buzzing in her rib cage remains. Her Saturday night is still empty. It will fill itself organically, but Daisy has been more conscientious in recent weeks, scheduling outings and hangouts as early as a day and a half in advance. The buzz of anticipation drowns out the Big Buzz. So does taking a shit, Marbolo 27s, and good standup. There is a greater than insubstantial list.
Wyatt replies, “All G Naks, have fun chain-smoking butts on the wharf!”
It reminds Daisy that Wyatt is funny, maybe even really funny. She laughs audibly. She imagines herself vagrant, searching for, reviving a stubbed cigarette filter on the wharf. She feels joy. She laughs again. The laugh feels forced. Daisy reaches her left hand down to the top of her stomach. The joy is gone now, but where is the buzz? She feels more confused than relieved. The buzz is gone. Wyatt is still funny. Daisy remembers Wyatt’s face. It’s a good face.
Daisy gets in the shower. She remembers she already showered after yoga. She is glad she went to yoga. At yoga a man was wearing women’s Lululemon. His back bend was excessive. She has forgotten about Wyatt. She palms the removable shower head and considers masturbating. The idea seems preposterous, as silly as a monkey with cymbals or wearing underwear on her head. She catches her reflection in the glass sliding door.