The Circle

way. Wasn’t very nice. Not Circly at all. Pretend I didn’t say it.
The second: You get my last msg?
The third: Starting to freak out a little. Why aren’t you answering me?

---

Fourth: Just texted you, called you. Are you dead? Shit. Forgot you forgot your phone. You
suck.
Fifth: If you were o ended by what I said about Dan don’t go all silent-treatment. I said
sorry. Write back.
Sixth: Are you getting these messages? It’s v. important. Call me!
Seventh: If you’re telling Dan what I said you’re a bitch. Since when do we tattle on each
other?
Eighth: Realizing you might just be in a meeting. True?
Ninth: It’s been 25 mins. What is UP?
Tenth: Just checked and see that you’re back at your desk. Call me this instant or we’re
through. I thought we were friends.
Eleventh: Hello?
Mae called her.
“What the hell, spaz?”
“Where were you?”
“I saw you twenty minutes ago. I nished in the sample room, used the bathroom, and
now I’m here.”
“Did you tell on me?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you tell on me?”
“Annie, what the fuck?”
“Just tell me.”
“No, I didn’t tell on you. To who?”
“What did you say to him?”
“Who?”
“Dan.”
“I haven’t even seen him.”
“You didn’t send a message to him?”
“No. Annie, shit.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
Annie sighed. “Okay. Fuck. Sorry. I sent him a message, and called him, and hadn’t
heard back. And then I didn’t hear back from you, and my brain just put all this together
in a weird way.”
“Annie, shit.”
“Sorry.”
“I think you’re overstressed.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Let me get you some drinks tonight.”
“Thanks, no.”
“Please?”
“I can’t. We have too many things going on here this week. Just trying to deal with this
clusterfuck in Washington.”

---

“Washington? What about it?”
“It’s such a long story. I can’t say, actually.”
“But you’re the one that has to handle it? All of Washington?”
“They give me some of the government-hassle stu because, I don’t know, because they
think my dimples help. Maybe they do. I don’t know. I just wish there were five of me.”
“You sound terrible, Annie. Take a night off.”
“No, no. I’ll be ne. I just have to answer these queries from some subcommittee. It’ll
be fine. But I better go. Love you.”
And she hung up.
Mae called Francis. “Annie won’t go out with me. Will you? Tonight?”
“Out-out? There’s a band here tonight. You know the Creamers? They’re playing in the
Colony. It’s a benefit.”
Mae said yes, that sounded good, but when the time came, she didn’t want to see a
band called the Creamers play in the Colony. She cajoled Francis into her car, and they
left for San Francisco.
“You know where we’re going?” he asked.
“I don’t. What are you doing?”
He was typing furiously into his phone. “I’m just telling everyone I’m not coming.”
“Finished?”
“Yes.” He dropped his phone.
“Good. Let’s drink first.”
And so they parked downtown and found a restaurant that looked so terrible, with
faded and unappetizing pictures of the food taped haphazardly to the windows, that they
figured it might be cheap. They were right, and they ate curry and drank Singha and sat in
bamboo chairs that squealed and strained to stay erect. Somewhere toward the end of her
rst beer, Mae decided that she would have a second, quickly, and that shortly after
dinner she would kiss Francis on the street.
They finished dinner and she did.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Did you just thank me?”
“You just saved me so much inner turmoil. I’ve never made the rst move in my life.
But usually it takes a woman weeks to figure out she’ll have to take the initiative.”
Again Mae had the feeling of being clubbed with information that complicated her
feelings about Francis, who seemed so sweet one moment and so strange and un ltered
the next.
Still, because she was riding at the crest of a Singha wave, she led him by the hand back
to her car, where they kissed more, while parked on a very busy intersection. A homeless
man was watching them, as an anthropologist would, from the sidewalk, miming the
taking of notes.
“Let’s go,” she said, and they left the car, and wandered through the city, nding a
Japanese souvenir shop open, and, next to it, also open, a gallery full of photorealistic
paintings of gigantic human haunches.
“Big pictures of big asses,” Francis noted, as they found a bench, in an alley-turned-

---

piazza, the streetlamps above giving it the look of blue moonlight. “That was real art. I
couldn’t believe they hadn’t sold anything yet.”
Mae kissed him again. She was in a kissing mood, and knowing that Francis wouldn’t
make any aggressive moves, she felt at ease, kissing him more, knowing it would be only
kissing tonight. She threw herself into the kissing, making it mean lust, and friendship,
and the possibility of love, and kissed him while thinking of his face, wondering if his
eyes were open, if he cared about the passersby who clucked or who hooted but still
passed by.
In the days that followed, Mae knew that it could be true, that the sun could be her halo,
that the leaves could exist to marvel at her every step, to urge her on, to congratulate her
on this Francis, what the two of them had done. They had celebrated their shimmering
youth, their freedom, their wet mouths, and had done so in public, fueled by the
knowledge that whatever hardships they had faced or would face, they were working at
the center of the world and trying mightily to improve it. They had reason to feel good.
Mae wondered if she was in love. No, she knew she was not in love, but she was, she felt,
at least halfway. That week, she and Francis ate lunch together often, even if brie y, and
after they ate, they found a place to lean against each other and kiss. Once it was under a
re exit behind the Paleozoic. Once it was in the Roman Empire, behind the paddle
courts. She loved his taste, always clean, simple like lemon water, and how he would
remove his glasses, look brie y lost, then would close his eyes and look almost beautiful,
his face as smooth and uncomplicated as a child’s. Having him near brought a new crackle
to the days. Everything was astounding. Eating was astounding, under the bright sun, the
heat of his shirt, his hands on her ankle. Walking was astounding. Sitting in the
Enlightenment was astounding, as they were now doing, awaiting Dream Friday in the
Great Hall.
“Pay attention,” Francis said. “I really think you’ll like this.”
Francis wouldn’t tell Mae what the subject of that Friday’s innovation talk was. The
speaker, Gus Khazeni, had apparently been part of Francis’s child safety project before he
spun o , four months ago, to head up a new unit. Today would be his rst airing of his
findings and new plan.
Mae and Francis sat near the front, at Gus’s request. He wanted to see some friendly
faces as he spoke, for the rst time, in the Great Hall, Francis said. Mae turned to scan
the crowd, seeing Dan a few rows back, and Renata and Sabine, sitting together,
concentrating on a tablet laid between them.
Eamon Bailey stepped onto the stage to warm applause.
“Well, we really have a treat for you today,” he said. “Most of you know our local
treasure and jack-of-all-trades, Gus Khazeni. And most of you know he had an inspiration
a while back that we urged him to follow. Today he’ll do a bit of a presentation, and I
think you’ll really like it.” And with that, he ceded the stage to Gus, who had the odd
combination of preternaturally good looks and a timid, mouse-like demeanor. Or at least
it seemed that way, as he pittered across the stage like he was tip-toeing.

---

“Okay, if you’re like me, you’re single and pathetic and forever a disappointment to
your Persian mother and father and grandparents, who see you as a failure for not having
a mate and children by now because you’re pathetic.”
Laughs from the audience.
“Did I use the word pathetic twice?” More laughter. “If my family was here, it would
have been many more times.
“Okay,” Gus continued, “but let’s say you want to please your family, and maybe
yourself too, by finding a mate. Anyone interested in finding a mate here?”
A few hands rose up.
“Oh c’mon. You liars. I happen to know that 67 percent of this company is unmarried.
So I’m talking to you. The other 33 percent can go to hell.”
Mae laughed out loud. Gus’s delivery was perfect. She leaned over to Francis. “I love
this guy.”
He continued: “Now maybe you tried other dating sites. And let’s say you’re matched
up, and that’s all good, and you’re headed out for a rendezvous. All good, the family’s
happy, they briefly entertain the idea that you’re not a worthless use of their shared DNA.
“Now, the second you ask someone out, you’re screwed, right? Actually, you’re not
screwed. You’re celibate, but you want to change that. So you spend the rest of the week
stressing over where to take them—food, concert, wax museum? Some kind of dungeon?
You have no idea. The wrong choice and you’re an idiot. You know that you have a wide
variety of tastes, things you like, and they probably do, too, but that rst choice is too
important. You need help to send the right message—the message being that you’re
sensitive, intuitive, decisive, you have good taste and you’re perfect.”
The crowd was laughing; they hadn’t stopped laughing. The screen behind Gus now
showed a grid of icons, with information listed clearly below each. Mae could make out
what seemed to be symbols for a restaurant, for movies, music, shopping, outdoor
activities, beaches.
“Okay,” Gus continued, “so check this out and remember it’s just a beta version. This is
called LuvLuv. Okay, maybe that name sucks. Actually, I know it sucks and we’re
working on it. But this is how it works. When you’ve found someone, and you have their
name, you made contact, you have a date planned—this is when LuvLuv comes in. Maybe
you’ve already memorized their dating-site page, their personal page, all their feeds. But
this LuvLuv gives you an entirely di erent set of information. So you feed in your date’s
name. That’s the start. Then LuvLuv scans the web and uses some high-powered and very
surgical search machinery to ensure that you don’t make an ass out of yourself and that
you might nd love and produce grandchildren for your baba, who thinks you might be
sterile.”
“You’re awesome, Gus!” a woman’s voice yelled from the audience.
“Thank you! Will you go out with me?” he said, and waited for an answer. When the
woman went quiet, he said, “See, this is why I need help. Now, to test this software, I
think we require an actual person who wants to nd out more about an actual potential
romantic interest. Can I have a volunteer?”
Gus looked out to the audience, theatrically peering around with his hand shielding his

---

eyes.
“No one? Oh wait. I see a hand up.”
To Mae’s shock and horror, Gus was looking her way. More speci cally, he was looking
at Francis, whose hand was raised. And before she could say anything to him, Francis was
out of his seat and headed up to the stage.
“Give this brave volunteer a round of applause!” Gus said, and Francis jogged up the
steps and was enveloped in the warm spotlight, next to Gus. He had not looked back to
Mae since he’d left her side.
“Now what is your name, sir?”
“Francis Garaventa.”
Mae thought she’d puke. What was happening? This isn’t real, she said to herself. Was
he really going to talk about her onstage? No, she assured herself. He’s just helping a
friend, and they’ll do their demonstration using fake names.
“Now Francis,” Gus continued, “am I to assume you have someone you’d like to date?”
“Yes, Gus, that is correct.”
Mae, dizzy and terri ed, nonetheless couldn’t help noticing that onstage, Francis was
transformed, just as Gus had been. He was playing along, showing his teeth, acting shy
but doing so with great confidence.
“Is that person a real person?” Gus asked.
“Of course,” Francis said. “I no longer date imaginary people.” The crowd laughed
heartily, and Mae’s stomach dropped to her shoes. Oh shit, she thought. Oh shit.
“And her name?”
“Her name is Mae Holland,” Francis said, and for the rst time, looked down to her.
Her face was in her hands, her eyes peeking from under her trembling ngers. With an
almost imperceptible tilt of his head, he seemed to register that Mae wasn’t entirely
comfortable with the proceedings thus far, but just as soon as he acknowledged her, he
turned back to Gus, grinning like a game-show host.
“Okay,” Gus said, typing the name into his tablet, “Mae Holland.” In the search box,
her name appeared in three-foot letters on the screen.
“So Francis wants to go out with Mae, and he doesn’t want to make an ass out of
himself. What’s one of the first things he needs to know. Anyone?”
“Allergies!” someone yelled.
“Okay, allergies. I can search for that.”
He clicked on an icon of a cat sneezing, and immediately a stanza appeared below.