You Who Does Not Exist

It’s hard to start when you start late, Zyn’s voice quietly reminds Helen as she steps into the bar and takes a deep breath. So, this is the dating scene here. What is so scary about this? She’d been expecting a shark tank filled with sexual fluids and bad body odor, but Helen likes the look of the individuals arrayed in odd positions throughout the room. It’s as if they are literally trying to put their best foot forward. She is rambling inside her head at you, but you don’t mind because if you were real, you would just be happy to hear her voice.

She imagines you prodding her to go chat up someone at the bar, but you would never say that. That’s not who you are, that’s who she’d always wanted you to be. Instead, Helen sat at a booth opposite two people intertwined at the legs and arms, staring into each other’s eyes.

You two were never like that. Helen wasn’t the type to sit still and look into someone’s eyes unless it was a doctor. And you, of course, hated prolonged eye contact. Sometimes when arguing, Helen would stare into your eyes until you stormed off, angry and skeeved.

Everyone has a drink in their hand except Helen. She’s too busy talking to a ghost in her head that is you who doesn’t exist. Her fingers play with each other like squirrels on a tree that is her anxiety.

“May I?” a person says, eyeing the seat beside Helen. “How about you take this spare drink I just so happen to have.” They hand Helen a tall, skinny glass before plopping in beside her.

You chuckle at the stranger’s audacity as Helen squirms.

Helen eyes the cocktail before placing it down on the table in front of her. “I—”

“My name is Hank. He, him, they, their pronouns,” Hank says. They’ve sat down in such a way that Helen only has one way out—asking Hank to move.

Tell him to buzz off, no one says in her mind.

“I’m new,” Helen says. “New to everything really. I just got into town today. My stuff hasn’t even arrived yet.” Helen tries to make it seem like she isn’t threatened even though she imagines Zyn chattering about statistics and reviews and how no one cares if you die when you’re old, they’re all just happy to see you finally at rest.

Hank smiles, flashing high-quality 3D printed teeth shimmering with flecks of gold. He reminds you of an old pimp. “When I was younger, I’d come to places like this and pick up anyone I wanted. The best opening line was always, ‘What brings you to a place like this?’ It killed every time. Next thing you know, we’re knocking things off the wall,” he finishes with a wink.

Subtle, you say. Helen laughs. You tell her to hush so that Hank doesn’t get any funny ideas, but that only makes her laugh more.

Hank slides their arm around the back of the booth. “Here, everyone is so old, they’ve heard every smile and seen every lie. And there’s only two ways you end up here. One, your partner is dead, and you’re alone in the world—harsh but at this age what do you expect? Or two, your family has decided that it would be for the best if you were with others like yourself. Either one is a mood killer, am I right?”

Hank probably doesn’t expect an answer, but Helen loves answering rhetorical questions. “Then how do you explain all of these lovely folks having a fine time together?”

Hank looks around at the other people in the room, says, “Why are you so sure they’re having fun?”

“Because,” Helen says with zero intention of finishing.

“It’s a weird sick mind fuck. If they’re having fun, that means you could potentially also have fun. It makes it all worth it.”

You keep quiet—Helen always said you made it worth it. Even when you weren’t there, Helen felt you always. She used to say you made everything better, just knowing you were out there somewhere. Now, she only sips on her drink, blinking away the sudden sting in her eyes. And Hank politely and tenderly changes the subject.

The two continue their back and forth until the attendants close the bar. The real Zyn glides over through the crowd of centurions meandering with their nurses. Despite the small jokes and tender jealousies you keep muttering, Helen says goodnight to Hank and makes a loose promise to see him around.

On the way back to Helen’s room, Zyn—the real one—squeezes her arm. “Was it worth it?”

Helen says nothing. She looks to where you would be if you were there, off in the corner of the garden on a bench aglow with moonlight. She thinks back on the ways you met and met again, loved and hated, lived and died. You're not in the garden at all, of course. You're right beside her, like you've always been. But you're not surprised when Zyn wanders off without getting an answer; Helen has always liked not answering questions that deserve a response.

© 2023 Aigner Loren Wilson

About the Author

Aigner Loren Wilson is a queer Black writer and editor of literary speculative fiction. She serves as a senior fiction editor at Strange Horizons. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming from Interzone Magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, FIYAH, and more. When she’s not writing or editing, she’s learning, hiking, or loving on her fur babies—both human and animal. Follow her on Twitter @ALWlikeahowl, Instagram @frekihowl, or through her website aignerlwilson.com