SmokeLong Quarterly

In some ways the man in the narrator’s teeth seems to be hiding and in others he seems desperate to be noticed. He is benign but literally stuck in her head. He has put down roots in a hard-to-reach place, yet he plays music, screams, cries, and finally speaks. Does the act of noticing someone make them worthy of notice? Is it possible for someone who is literally in your head to be benign?

After I’ve ascribed significance to someone, it’s hard for me to neutralize them. Or at least it just takes a frustratingly long time. It can feel easier or safer to be closed off by default. I suppose in that sense, a person in your head can’t be benign. But I don’t think it’s parasitic, either. I wanted to explore what happens when you try to tune out a person that’s already in your head, and what you risk by doing that. Sometimes paying attention to that annoying little guy can reveal something about your own feelings. That’s what the narrator has to contend with at the end: Oh nooo—I think I might like this guy. Worthy or not.

In a world of connected distance where faces are ubiquitous and easily searchable, hearing someone’s voice for the first time strikes me as an unexpected intimacy. It seems to strike the narrator, too. What does real closeness look like in a world where you can know everything about someone from a profile? What does it look like for a woman with a man in her head? Is intimacy  a measure of nearness or something immeasurable? If the latter, how do we know when we’ve crossed into it?

I actually don’t think you can know everything about a person from a profile. It’s easy to feel like you can, but a profile is a one-way street. Similarly, the narrator and the man couldn’t have been any physically closer, but they really only knew surface-level things about the other: musical taste, breakfast pecans, etc. I’m interested in what happens when people actually engage with each other, and how they approach things like curiosity, vulnerability, or even hearing someone’s voice for the first time. Those things aren’t measurable, but they can create intimacy. I think you’re right that the narrator is caught off guard at the end—pleasantly so, even if it makes her a bit anxious. It’s a moment that’s only possible once they finally turn their attention toward each other, rather than simply existing in close proximity. And hey, who knows what’ll happen now that they’re chatting.

I love how you toy with believability. You so vividly, with such acuity and humor, describe the man between her teeth, that Brenda’s story about the couch almost feels less believable. What is the role of believability in fiction, especially in magical realism, where the work needs to be believed even, if not especially, in its absurdity?

That’s one of my favorite things about fiction: You can shape believability around an emotional core, regardless of what’s possible in the real world. It’s funny, when I started writing Brenda’s story, I was thinking of very real, very stagnated relationships, where the days just kind of blend together and nothing feels dynamic. Or relationships where there’s an imbalance of care, where one person effectively stops participating. Sure, on paper, Brenda’s boyfriend literally hasn’t moved from the couch in years, but that puts her in a position of feeling figuratively stuck. And it would bum me out to write that straight. So instead, I fused her boyfriend’s butt to a cushion and let the situation play out from there.

The women in this story get so little from the men. Passive, pathetic, and dismissive, all the men—the ex-boyfriends, Brenda’s couch potato, the molar man, even the dentist—seemingly contribute nothing. Yet they are missed, remembered, and heeded. Why do we sometimes care most for those who trouble and worry us? Can we get rid of the people who linger, who refuse to leave? Is a leech really blood-sucking if it stays with you forever, if it never falls away?

God, if I only knew. When I started writing this story, my intent was for the narrator to find a way to get rid of the man—maybe swallow him up or something. But reality is hardly that clean, at least in my experience. It can be both illuminating and excruciating to have a crush on someone, so it felt more true to have her fall for this sad sack with a guitar in spite of herself. I think the dentist is right: The man is probably her type. Sometimes that’s all it takes. My hunch is that Brenda’s relationship started in a similar way but soured over time. It happens. The narrator is still at the exciting beginning of the story, and I’m glad I got to leave her there; it’s fun to write about those beginning bits—sparks flying, etcetera.

What songs are playing in your head right now? What is the man in your molars whispering in your ear?

At the moment it’s “Interstate Vision” by the band Lomelda. There’s no significance—that’s just what’s playing on a loop up there right now. I always feel weird admitting this as a writer, but I am one of those people who doesn’t know lyrics to songs. Like, at all. My consumption of music is based on vibes and vibes alone. I’m actually on a solo trip in Joshua Tree as I’m writing this, so I’ve got a soundtrack of artists like Ora Cogan, Kacy & Clayton, and Kevin Morby keeping me company on long drives through the desert.

And no man whispers in my ear. Thank God.