Numbered Love by Maysam Yabandeh - HTML preview

A Numbers Game

This is Nam’s third time experiencing the coldest April of his life, but he still hasn’t gotten used to it. He sinks into his fake Patagonia jacket, which is as useless as a few napkins stitched together by human saliva. It’s useless, but you’ve gotta wear brands on dates. Chicks dig that shit. And most are too dumb to tell the fake apart from the original. Taking another puff from his joint, Nam waits for Livia, his eternal love, on the Story Bridge.

Immigrating to the US was not too difficult. It turns out you need neither talent nor money nor luck. All you need is a lousy IT certificate that you can get in just a few weeks. A few thousand bucks later, an Indian staffing agency secures you an H-1B visa and subcontracts you to consulting companies that pay minimum wage. As long as you pay 35% of your monthly salary under the table to the staffing agency, you can keep your shitty job and stay in the US legally. God bless America. You might be tight on cash, but if your only life goal is dating, who needs a savings account?

Love. Love. Ryan loves dating apps, where you find the answer to your most sincere prayers—hooking up with chicks of every flavor. But, you need to know how to play. First, you’ve gotta get rid of your out-of-fashion Burt Reynolds mustache. Not many chicks dig it these days. Then, you dye your hair blonde and get a Ryan Gosling haircut. And most importantly, you pick a white name, or else chicks will just swipe past your pathetic Asian name. Nam goes by Ryan these days. Once you’ve got the profile right, then it’s time to take action: start hitting on as many girls as possible. Don’t waste time like an idiot reading their interests. Just blast out messages like a machine gun to every single one of them. Then, you just kick back like an artist watching his canvas and wait for the odds to do all the work for you. After all, it’s a numbers game.

Once a chick takes the bait, you gotta play it cool with the conversation. Keep it light. Nothing about the economy, history, or politics. If you really have to pretend to be well-informed, casually drop in a reference to last week’s SNL political sketches. Memorizing a few CNN headlines is a bonus but not required. If she asks, you’re a model but also have made a fortune by trading stocks on Robinhood. If it comes up, you’re neither an atheist nor religious. Spiritual is the correct answer—a safe play that works most of the time. Then, quickly shift the conversation to baseball, the weather, or her favorite shows on Netflix before things get too intense and you blow your chance to score. If you fail again, the only one keeping your sad dick company at night will be your faithful lover, Amanda from PornHub.

Nam Ryan takes another joyless puff from his joint. In a few moments, he will be reunited with the love of his life, and he’s gotta be high enough to handle the gravity of the moment. After all, love is everyone’s ultimate dream, the one that gives life its meaning. Or is it, really? What is love, anyway? Is it just an orgasm at its peak? Or when sex is so good that you stop wondering what else is out there? That can’t be it. Nam, for one, isn’t in love— yet—but he stopped wondering some time ago when no corner was left unexplored in that department. He’s already been with his fair share of women. Ha, that’s an understatement. He’s been with a lot of men’s fair share of women. In his CV, Ryan has scored with a Russian chick, a French, a few Asians of all flavors—Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, Korean—a Swedish blonde, an Italian brunette, a tall Dutch, a short Chilean, and once even a Lebanese. You name it; he’s had it. Ryan has conquered the world, except the sleazy Wild West, and now it’s time to have Livia too. He kept the best for the last.

Livia is late this time, but Ryan is not worried. She will be here. She has no alternatives. This is their written destiny. Ryan is her true love, and wherever she is, she’s bound to seek shelter in her predetermined romance with Ryan. And then for the rest of their lives they will share every single moment together. Or, at least, three times a week, depending on their stamina.

Burping loudly, a woman staggers across the bridge, wearing a knee-length skirt and a loose blue tank top. How wasted must she be not to feel the freezing cold ruling the bridge? The light pole she passes casts a glow on her face. The drunk is Livia, a reality Ryan was reluctant to believe.

A brief, revitalizing warmth spreads through his heart as a vague image of baby Livia flashes across his mind, an image long forgotten. The image that was once his sole inspiration in life is now nothing but a distant shadow. Wavering and faint, the silhouette still bears no resemblance to the drunk stumbling toward him.

Shit. Here comes the love of my life. Ryan takes a deep drag from his joint.

He would give up his assured, everlasting love with this chick for just one more moment with baby Livia, doubts and hesitation included. He exhales slowly, making himself a promise: If Livia ever grows jealous again of his bigger life—as women do—and uses their last credit of the B-word to reset time, he will spend every remaining moment before their separation staring at baby Livia, engraving her reviving smile into his brain.

Ryan hopes he will remember not to forget this promise.

Livia lurches toward him, her steps unsteady.

“Ready?” Ryan asks.

Livia lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah.” She burps. “Livia is ready, lover,” she says, covering her smiling face with her erected wedding finger, now as naked as a shame-free stripper on stage. Why does it feel like she’s giving Ryan the finger?

“Not married, I got it. OK, let’s get this done.” Ryan takes a final puff before tossing the joint into the river.

“What’s your number?” she asks as she staggers toward Ryan.

“My number?”

“How many girls, loser?” she says and leans in to kiss Ryan on the lips, her bad breath reeking of alcohol.

Ryan keeps his distance by holding her shoulders, and then turns her toward the clock tower. “In seven minutes, we will fall in love, and then we both will be the winner.”

“Don’t…screw with me,” Livia says, slapping Ryan’s arm away. “How…many?”

Ryan sighs. “Does it matter?”

Livia’s silent stare demands a response.

“I don’t know, 16, 17, depending on how you count. Do blow jobs count?”

Livia lets out a brief chuckle, her gaze still fixed on Ryan’s lips.

“OK, 17 then.”

Livia lets out a louder, exaggerated chuckle.

“Sorry, but shit happens. I figured I’d try a slightly more adventurous life this time, and it got a bit wild. I hope you don’t mind. I know how sensitive chicks could be.”

“Ha, Ha,” Livia chuckles, her laughter sounding forced. “Right back at ya, lover.”

“What? What’s your number?”

Livia raises her left hand, erecting the middle finger, then the naked wedding finger, followed by the index finger.

Ryan lets out a deep breath. “That’s OK. Three is good too. It’s not a competition, you know. All that matters is how the story ends, and in a few minutes it will end with endless love,” Ryan says the mirthless words.

“Thirty, sucker,” Livia shouts. “Thirty.”

“What?!”

“That’s right, loser. Men 0 - Women 1. Now, I’m ready for you. Let’s fall in love,” she says and leans in for a kiss.

“Hold on a minute,” Ryan says, keeping her at arm’s length. “Hold on. Thirty?”

“That’s right, lover. Thirty.”

“You’re a slut.”

“So are you.”

“Have you got no shame, woman?”

“Have you, man?”

Ryan has no response but to pant. Feeling cold sweat trickling down his forehead, he takes off the useless Patagonia jacket. He badly needs to light another joint. Feeling the weight of the heavy jacket in his hand, he offers it to Livia. “Here, cover up.”

“Oh, how sweet!” Livia drapes the jacket loosely over her shoulders. “It matters not, truly,” she says, as if performing on stage. “In a few minutes, we shall fall in love, envied by generations to come. Slut or not slut. Who gives a fuck?”

“OK. OK. Then how about I go back and screw hundreds of sluts. How about that? It matters not, truly, right?”

“You could go back,” Livia chuckles, “but you’d be just setting yourself up for failure.”

“What do you mean?”

“You could never ever beat me in this game, loser.”

“How’s that?”

“Hello,” she says pointing to her two braless breasts. “I’m a strong woman, empowered with a body born to be loved.” She puffs out her chest.

“You think I cannot screw as many people as you do?”

“I know you cannot screw as many people as I do. Come on, Nam. There are things in this world that are just plain easier for women.”

“Got a few bucks to spare for a broken heart?” The stinky homeless man walks his usual route across the bridge. Broken heart? Has this bastard ever gotten laid? Why does he look like an unfortunate version of Ryan aged badly?

“Look, I’ll show you,” Livia says, drops Ryan’s jacket behind her, and turns to the bald, homeless man. “Hey you, wanna suck on this?” She says, pulling down her top to expose her left breast.

Like a hypnotized zombie, the homeless man stretches out his hands toward Livia.

Ryan slaps the homeless man’s hand and shoves him away from Livia. “Piss off, pervert.”

The homeless man growls but keeps walking anyway, his hand on the bridge railing. “Got a few bucks to spare for a broken heart?” he repeats the only line that he has ever said.

“See?” Livia says with a smug smile. “I can score on demand, any time, anywhere. Can you?”

“You think I can’t?” Ryan asks, trying to control his rage.

“You could try if you wanna make a fool of yourself.” Livia chuckles.

“You’re wrong. You’re dead wrong, and as God is my witness, I’ll prove it. Rematch,” Ryan shouts. “I want a rematch.”

“Nam, please,” Livia says, giving him a pitiful look. “Let’s just fall in love and save yourself the embarrassment. Being a loser is your charm. That’s what I love about you.”

“Who’s Nam? I’m not Nam. I’m Ryan. Everyone calls me Ryan. And I want a rematch.”

“OK, Ryan or whatever. But you should know, if you reset the game, I’ll let myself go. I’ll let myself go beyond your imagination. I will be the Livia-do-anything. I will come back with a number that no one in history can beat. A hundred at least.”

Ryan flicks his cheek, a smear of saliva left behind from her last words.

“That’s how I roll, lover.”

“How about 200?” Ryan says with clenched teeth, wiping her spit from his face.

“What?”

“Are you scared, lover? Is that too much of a challenge?”

“How could you even get 200 women to sleep with you?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’d pay for it if I had to. And that’s how I roll, lover.”

“Pay for it? Pathetic.”

“Why not? I’ve already spent a fortune to finally score with 17 girls, you know, with the dinners, flowers, gifts, iPhone, and shit. This time I’ll pay cash. Baz—”

“Wait, wait. We have only one shot at a replay left. Let’s use it wisely.”

“I’m listening.”

“Let’s set a limit, and neither of us should go over it, no matter what.”

“You’re on. How about 300?”

“300?! You’d need all the money in the world to pay for 300 hookups.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll visit Phuket if I have to. The girls there are more reasonably priced.”

“OK, then let’s make it round and nice. 500.”

“500?!”

“What?” Livia chuckles. “Is it above your budget?”

“Are you really willing to have sex with 500 different men?”

“I’m a woman, and I can do whatever I want.”

“You know we’ll both come back with crabs, if not Chlamydia or Syphilis. With 500, this shit will get you. It’s just a numbers game.”

“Maybe,” Livia sighs. “But then we will fall in endless love, and then nothing will matter,” she says mirthlessly like a bad actress, “right?”

Ryan chuckles.

“Right?” she asks again, raising her voice.

“I guess.”

“Then may the better one win.”

“So be it. Baz—”

“Bazinga, loser.” Livia interrupts Ryan and the world around them, already on the brink, fractures into chaos.

Ryan looks away as they both are drawn into a swirling time tunnel.

“But we have to rub your head first,” baby Livia said, almost screeching.

“Or our wish won’t come true,” baby Nam added, backing her up.

“All right, all right. Let’s make it quick.” I leaned in and felt their sticky hands rubbing my head, as if they were trying to summon a genie from a magic lamp. “OK, that’s enough.”

“Thank you, Mr. Genie,” the boy and girl said in unison. As they climbed down the grassy hill, they took turns licking the lollipop.