This Soul Selects Her Own Society

By Gaurav Bhalla

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Gina and Zoe

Gina retrieves two bulging grocery bags from the back seat and shuts the car door with a merengue-style swing of her hips. The car beeps.

Zoe lives catty-corner from Gina and is out watering her tulips. She hears the beep, sees Gina teetering—a grocery bag sliding down each hip—drops her hose and walks briskly toward her, “Here, let me help you.”

Gina doesn’t think she needs help, but lets Zoe carry a bag. She’s the only resident on Running Cedar, a ten-on-either-side townhouse block, Gina’s semi-friendly with. The two first said hello at the start of the lockdown. By the end of the lockdown they had progressed to, “Hello friend.” Though for Gina the word friend was mere shorthand for companion, someone to occasionally do things with—shopping, movies, restaurants, salons, spas; nothing more.

Gina unlocks the front door of her townhouse, places her bag on the floor. Takes the grocery bag from Zoe, and mouths, “Thank you.”

“Gina, you should get a pet.” Zoe never misses an opportunity to say that; she’s a pet-therapy counsellor.

Gina tilts her head and frowns. She’s not a pet person. Cats are irritating. Dogs too much trouble.

“Seriously, Gina, you should get a pet.”

“Why?”

“They’re excellent release valves,” Zoe says, her voice rising with excitement. “They’re great for your blood pressure. You can talk to them you know. Share your thoughts, share your feelings; things you can’t or don’t want to share with others.”

Gina holds up her hand and whips out her cell phone from her hip pocket, “Sorry, I’ve got to take this call.” Speaking animatedly into her phone she steps into her house and shuts the front door. When she hears Zoe leaving, she stops speaking and puts the phone back in her hip pocket.

Misanthrope?

People who dislike Gina accuse her of being a misanthrope.

“I’m not a misanthrope,” Gina protests. “Definitely not; impatient maybe.” Dozens of personality tests she’s taken in school, college, and at work vindicate her.

It’s not the people. It’s their never-ending volley of insipid questions and unsavory advice—Must be tough being single … Anybody in your life? … Any plans on settling down? … You don’t have to marry, just live together … Who looks after your house when you travel? … You should get a pet … You are too much of an introvert, get out more, meet people, you never know. 

Lately, Gina has discovered an effective way of beating back these intruders. She (mis)quotes Emily Dickinson with a double-dose of gravitas—This soul selects her own society—then whistles and winks.

It works. Mostly.

Six p.m. Friday

It’s six p.m. on a Friday. Gina is still at work, writing a report due Monday morning.

Danny drops in. “Are you coming to Jim’s fiesta tomorrow?”

Gina leans left, toward Danny, and cups her ear.

“Are you coming to Jim’s fiesta tomorrow?” Danny asks again, his words hotter this time.

Gina sways—toward Danny, away from Danny—as if weighing options. Tick-tock, tick-tock. “Asking me out for a date, Danny darling?”

“Gosh, you are incorrigible.” Danny snorts and stomps away.

She calls after him. “I’m going for a long walk in the woods at noon, Danny. Care to …?” She stops when she hears the elevator doors shut. “Adios Danny.”

Gina stretches … yawns … returns to her report.

Mental Health

Halloween. Drives Gina crazy. It’s not the cookies and candy. It’s the constant oohing and cooing about the kids’ masks, makeup, and costumes—How lovely … Now isn’t that pretty … My who is this? … Are you sleeping beauty? … Who do we have here, Superman?—and the robotic repetition of—trick or treat, trick or treat, trick or treat. A sure-fire recipe for migraines and aneurysms.

Her company has a new perk—days off for Mental Health. Gina draws down two from her annual allotment of five. 

Her agenda for escaping Halloween:

• Thursday: get centered; chill at home with trusted friends—books, music, and a bold Bordeaux

• Friday and Saturday: Shenandoah National Park; soak in the vibrancy of fall colors, hike, nap under a tree by a waterfall

• Sunday: splurge on a champagne-brunch at the Ritz

She reviews the agenda for her four-day mental health weekend, bobs her head from side-to-side, and adds a line:

• Begin essay, “Aloneness is Not Loneliness;” write at least 300/200/100 words

Gina and Jacques

Despite a new Fun & Frolic Committee, the company’s annual Christmas party is just as dreary as in previous years. Gina slips out early to salvage her evening. Her phone rings as she enters her townhouse. It’s her shape-shifting friend Jacques. Originally Jack Morton from Lubbock, Texas, he’s tout à fait Parisian now.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Jacques.”

“Bonsoir, ma chérie. Back?”

“Oui.”

“Tu as des projets?”

“Am open. What do you have in mind?”

“Bubbles are on ice, Leonard Cohen’s all queued up, and the fridge is full, in case you’re hungry.”

Gina glows. Exactly the electricity she’d been yearning for. But she doesn’t say anything. Waits. Jacques always places a cherry on his invitation.

“Let’s be alone together, chérie, compare mythologies.”

“Merveilleux! Be there in ten; fifteen max.”