If You Feel like I Feel

JUST LIKE THAT, everything I was taught about patience diminishes. Over the speaker, Shawn asks a question for the, what, tenth time? If he were here, he would see me rolling my eyes. Oh, he knows this.

“But what is this show even about?”

Gathering my laptop and blanket towards the middle of my bed, I bring my phone up to my lips and effuse, “I can’t explain. It’s, it’s just good!”

“So, Google says—”

I don’t even let him continue his sentence. “Don’t Google it! It’ll give you spoilers.”

I’m fluffing up my pillows before propping my laptop on my lap. Pulling my blanket around me, I bring the volume up of my laptop and start logging into Netflix.

“Are you ready?” I hum, clicking on Maniac.

He doesn’t answer my question. “What do you do when you can’t keep your eyes open for more than ten seconds?” Shawn asks, letting out a loud yawn. Oddly enough, I feel myself yawning too. He continues, “I’m running a checklist through my head, mentally crossing out coffee, tea, chocolates—anything remotely related to caffeine.”

I check my phone and it’s a quarter past four.

“It’s only four,” I mock, rolling my eyes again, “and you’re tired?”

“I’ll have you know,” he slowly says, pausing, thinking of what to say next, “around this time, I’m getting ready to clock out for the night. Consider you an exception.”

I forgot that on Tuesdays, Shawn normally schedules time during the day to focus on his online class.

He lets out a small laugh before adding, “Also know that I’m eating my dinner earlier than usual because of you.”

While we simultaneously begin watching the first episode, Shawn lets out another yawn. “What’s this show about again?”

If he were here, he’d see that my eyes are gleaming as I happily talk about the show I haven’t seen yet. “Basically two people, in this cool ass world, experience a set of alternative universes, understanding their struggles and other shit like that. The cast–one word: amazing. Though I haven’t seen it yet the previews look so good.”

After the last word, I realize that as I ramble on, Shawn’s chewing awfully loud. I consider two things: this is a new habit he’s questionably forming or his phone is too close to his mouth which picks up all the ungodly noises.

“You’re eating in bed, Shawn?” I rasp, frowning at the thought of crumbs in his bed.

He clicks his tongue, probably rolling his eyes too, before explaining, “I’m in my living room, excuse you. Right next to that tree you hate so much.”

I let out a laugh. During the night, the innocent fig’s shadow reminds me of something that shouldn’t be seen by anyone with a wild imagination. “That tree freaks me out and you know it.”

During the first ten minutes of the show, I’m slightly distracted by Shawn’s continuous noise making from eating food; meaning, he’s happy, basically.

Thinking of his dinner, I’m tempted to pause the show but it’s too good so I don’t. “What are you eating? I had a snack like an hour ago but, ugh, the leftover banana bread your mom gave me over the weekend is calling my name.”

“You still have that? It’s been three days since we were at my parents’ house.”

I frown, teasingly saying, “How long have you known me, Shawn? I. Don’t. Waste. Babe, you know that!”

Without skipping a beat, he beams, “Guess what I’m eating. You’ll probably get jealous.” I can just imagine the smirk dancing on his lips as he says the last word.

“Guess? From what clues—the way you’re humming and moaning?”

I cannot believe that came out of my mouth.

Shawn pipes, “Guess!”

“Chowder.”

“Okay, ew.”

“Okay.” I can’t help but let out a laugh. “What do you have against chowder?”

“It’s like you don’t know me,” he groans, acting like he’s hurt.

I guess again, actually, thinking this time. “Pastrami on wheat and curly fries.”

“Very specific,” he begins, “no, but damn, that sounds good right now. We should grab that for lunch sometime.”

Shawn’s silent for what feels like minutes. He’s no longer munching so I only hear his breathing over the phone. While adjusting the volume of my computer, I think of the possible reasons he’s oddly quiet: he probably doesn’t like Maniac or he’s so into it, he’s speechless. Or, going by the realistic answer: he’s just enjoying his dinner.

“Are you in bed?” he blurts. The question throws me off for a second.

“Yeah, why?” I ask, slightly distracted by the show–Jonah’s character just did some crazy ass shit.

He whispers lowly, “What are you doing?”

I scrunch my nose, rambling, “Shawn, is this some type of dirty question? I can’t do that with this show in front of me. Why aren’t you paying attention to Jonah’s character? Wait, you didn’t answer my question—what are you eating?”

“C’mooon,” he says, like it’s butter, “what are you doing?”

“Depends where this question leads.”

He lets out an angelic laugh, urging me to answer him. I can imagine his cheeks either turning red or his eyebrows waggling as his lifts them because of who knows what.

He chuckles, “You’re extra witty tonight.”

I say slowly, “I’m wrapped around a blanket.”

“And?”

“Shawn, if you’re trying to ask if I’m naked under this blanket, the answer is no.” I have a feeling he paused Maniac, considering his attention and tone of voice.

He laughs again, starting to say something but he doesn’t finish his thought.

After the short pause, Shawn hums, “Y’know the other day...when we were talking about curry?”

I begin to play with my fingernails. “Which day was that?” We talked about curry a lot last week.

“Last week Saturday.”

“Oh, yeah.” I smile, remembering that I was craving it. “I‘m still craving it, y’know!”

“And do you remember how we talked about that good curry house shutting down?”

I frown, thinking about how the curry place near work closed down. “I’m getting hungry just thinking about it. I’m still sad that the best curry place in town is gone.”

I hear his laugh pierce into my phone. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything else.

Wrapping myself tighter with my blanket, I lean up, noticing my phone lighting up.

As my phone buzzes, a small smile creeps on my face as I open Shawn’s text message.



I hit pause on Maniac.

I take him off the speaker and press the phone against my ear. “You didn’t.”

He lets out another chuckle, saying, “Get ready, babe. I’ll pick you up.”

“When did you cook that? How did you find the time? I could've sworn you came home just an hour ago,” I say, simpering.

“I was motivated,” Shawn gloats, probably feeling really good about himself.

“You cooked on a school night?”

He’s ignoring my questions again. Between laughs, he says, “Wear a sweater since it’s cold, babe.”

The corners of my mouth lift into another smile. I say, “I thought you were tired.”

Shawn laughs deeply in the phone, explaining, “Honestly, talking to you in the last fifteen minutes gave me more energy than all the caffeine I consumed during undergrad.”

“You know I talk too much.”

“I know. But it’s okay, I like it when you talk too much.” My grin widens, and I’m just glad he isn’t here to see me turn red. He beams, “But, c’mon, get ready! I’ll be there in ten.”