LITMIR.BIZ

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she’d eaten. Maybe she’d had a rehearsal or even a performance. If she wasn’t a ballerina, he still suspected she was involved with dance, maybe a dance instructor, or a choreographer. Like him, she often mentioned going to work out or being tired from a vaguely described workout.

      He shoveled in more eggs and began to type. Out late for work or play?

      There was a bit of a pause before she answered. Is this a trick question to see if I’ll give you a clue about what I do for a living? Do I work at night?

      Busted. Of course it was.

      Of course not. How about this—did you enjoy your late night or were you gutting it out?

      I loved it. I’m a natural night owl. I wish more of the world was. Even as a little kid, I hated going to bed for school. Kindergarten is misery for night owlets. Owlings. Whatever the term is. Why couldn’t school have been from 8pm to 2am, instead of 8am to 2pm?

      He put down the fork to type with two thumbs. You should’ve been a vampire. Do they have school-aged vampires? A kindergarten full of little ankle biters—literally, biters—who want school to start at 8 at night.

      That doesn’t seem right, she answered. I think you have to be a grown-up and choose to become a vampire. I don’t think I would, though. I feel isolated enough already. If I became a vampire, I’d be so sad, watching everyone I know going to bed and knowing by the time they woke up, I’d be done for the day. I’ll just have to stay a human night owl. (Is that an oxymoron? A human owl?) I don’t have many night owl friends, though. In fact, you’re the only one I can chat with at 3 in the morning. And because I know how to follow the ground rules, I’m not going to ask why you’re sometimes awake at 3.

      I’m a vampire.

      Ha ha. I’m just glad that you’re a night owl, too. You really are the perfect pen pal for me.

      Thane finished his eggs and left the iron skillet to cool. At least one woman out there thought he was perfect because of his crazy military schedule, not despite it. His last girlfriend, a civilian he still ran into too often in the small world of an army town, had pouted every night and weekend that he had to work. Pouting wasn’t as cute as it sounded.

      Do you know the longest amount of time I’ve gone without talking to you? Ten days. And by talking, I mean writing to you in hot-pink letters, of course. Stupid app. It’s so cliché, pink ink for girls and blue ink for boys.

      I know. I’m so used to it now, I get startled when I type anywhere else and the words are black instead of blue.

      I love this app, though, because it made us pen pals. I enjoy talking with you as much as with any friend I’ve ever had.

      Thane smiled down at the phone screen. After a long pause, more pink appeared.

      Do you think that’s normal?

      He stopped smiling. The answer, of course, was no. It wasn’t normal. He took the phone out to his balcony, all four feet by two feet of concrete perch, three stories above the earth, and looked down to the complex’s central swimming pool. Management had posted signs by the mailboxes that there would be a party today with free food. That party had started without him.

      He didn’t care. There was no one down there he’d rather be talking with. If it isn’t normal, then we’re both abnormal. It’s easy to talk to you.

      Agreed. Real people are hard.

      I’m real, he wanted to write. But he didn’t.

      Do you have a close friend in real life? she asked.

      Define friend.

      I think that means no. If you had a close friend, you’d just say yes. You wouldn’t ask me what a close friend is.

      She had him there.

      But I think you’re normal...for a blue ink person. I read somewhere that the majority of married women will say their female friends are their best friends, when asked. But the majority of men will say their wife is their best friend. I remember that because I thought it was sad that there are apparently a lot of husbands out there who think their wife is their best friend, but she prefers a female buddy. Are you really best friends with someone if that person doesn’t think you are their best friend, too? It’s too much like unrequited love.

      Who was his closest friend? His platoon sergeant came to mind immediately. They worked together every day, aiming for the same goals. They relied on one another. But Sergeant First Class Lloyd was not someone who would catch a famous quote in conversation—or who would laugh about it if he did. Heck, the platoon sergeant couldn’t even call Thane by his first name. Thane was addressed as Lieutenant Carter or Sir. Sometimes LT, the abbreviation of lieutenant, or, if they were being really casual, Boss. That was it.

      His company commander was another good man. More than a boss in the civilian sense of the word, but not a buddy. They shared some laughs, they were on the same page when it came to training and discipline, and they’d spent one Sunday in the field huddled over the same radio to get the playoff scores, because they cheered for the same NFL team. But the company commander was always the commander, with all the legal authority and responsibility that the position entailed. Thane was always Lieutenant Carter, no matter how many whiskeys they’d downed during officer-only dining-in events in the brigade.

      Thane was pretty sure Ballerina Baby would expect him to call a close friend by his first name, at a minimum.

      The only people at work who didn’t call him Lieutenant Carter were the other two platoon leaders. They were good guys. One was married, one was not. The married guy’s wife was named... Cecilia? Serena? Something with an s sound. If you couldn’t name a friend’s wife, he probably wouldn’t qualify as a close friend in Ballerina’s book. The other platoon leader was from Phoenix. Thane felt like he should get points for knowing that...okay, not a close friend. A friend, though. More than an acquaintance.

      Laughter from the pool floated up to his balcony. Maybe he ought to care more that he didn’t have a friend at his own apartment complex.

      He tried to put the ball back in Ballerina’s court. Do you have a real friend in real life?

      Then he waited. She’d probably say yes. Jealousy reared its ugly green head again, and in that moment, he realized how selfish that was. His life didn’t allow him to make friends in a normal way. Military rules didn’t allow him to date any woman who interested him. Military schedules were demanding. Did he wish the same for Ballerina Baby? Just because he felt isolated, just because he felt lonely among the very same people whom he would willingly fight beside, that was no reason for him to wish the same for her. He wanted her to have it better.

      Her reply was a question. You’re real, aren’t you, Drummer?

      Poor Ballerina. She was the same as he, sharing all her emotions with a stranger through an app. It filled a need, for certain, but even she didn’t call him by his first name. No one called him by name.

      Whose fault was that?

      Thane looked at the pool party with new eyes. If he wanted someone in real life who would call him by name, then he should do something about it. He could start by putting on his board shorts and flip-flops, going down there and telling people his real name. “Hello, I’m Thane.” And that would be followed by...

      What? Awkward small talk. He and Ballerina had moved past that quickly, months ago. He wasn’t the kind of guy who told jokes, but Ballerina answered his attempts at humor with her little pink Ha. That wouldn’t be happening in the group down there, people who were laughing between the barbecue grill and the keg of beer.

      Thane Carter in apartment 601 left his balcony and shut the door against the Texas heat and the party noise.

      I’m real, Baby, and I’m here for you.

      * * *

      Chloe Michaels in apartment 401 wriggled into a sitting position on the floor of her new living room, sitting up with her back against a moving box. She

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