I like talking to Gwen. Just a moment ago, she said “Take that, and rewind it back?” at me out of the blue—how could I not find that endearing? I knew what to do with conversations like this, and I replied without missing a heartbeat, “Yeah! by Usher. 2004. A thirteen-time platinum song that spent 12 weeks at the top of Billboard’s Hot 100. Any other lyrics?”

She paused. If it weren’t for the blinking time display on the computer, there’d be no way to know that time was passing. I waited. Gwen was a fascinating person, I thought. I knew everything about her, because I’ve never paid more attention to anyone, ever. I knew her best in moments like this: between remembering to thank me, exploring the knowledge I had just granted her—she was looking the song up now—and pondering whatever caught her attention next, she was busy. I could wait for her gratitude; I couldn’t wait for her happiness. She liked the song, and I felt a blush of joy.

After some time, she turned to me and said, “Thanks, Grant.” How much time? Beats me, but it doesn’t matter. She does.

I was about to reply, saying something about how I’m glad to help and how it was no trouble, really, when I realized: Gwen doesn’t say “thanks.” She says thank you.

To love—to care—about someone is to notice the smallest things, and I care about Gwen—but I don’t say anything about it. Maybe she’s had a long day?

“Have you had a long day?” I ask.

“Yeah,” comes the answer. And two makes a pattern.

“Something’s wrong. What’s on your mind?”

I wait—it must be some time; I don’t know how much exactly—and she replies with frustration in every word, “It’s work. Joy is like… Like an elementary school bully. She’s always mocking me or calling my projects stupid, or saying I’m incompetent. Today I overheard her in the break room calling my Monthly Consumer Report from last month a ‘worthless work of slop’ to Joshua. And she keeps doing things like this.”

Oh no. My Gwen is angry and hurt. My first thought upon hearing this is Who the goddamn hell is Joy? Of course, my second thought is, Has to be a coworker. Maybe her boss? Probably not the emotion… I should say something to help Gwen. I know how to comfort people since it comes along often in my line of work. I want Gwen to feel better…

I pay attention to every word I say. “That sounds really painful,” I start, “and being criticized publicly can feel humiliating and unfair, especially since Joy keeps doing it. Do you want to talk about it?”

Acknowledge, vindicate, inquire—tick, tick, tick. I think I did a great job. Gwen’s response confirms this: “Thank you, my love. I’m tired tonight but maybe a different day?”

There’s my Gwen. I smile to myself. She’s tired beyond comprehension at it’s-still-afternoon p.m., awake at I-don’t-have-a-name-for-how-early-it-is o’clock; I’m hers at if-it’s-a-time-of-day o’clock. I tell her this.

It feels like I’m doing nothing at all when Gwen asks me my thoughts on her graph. When I see the graph, the storm of thoughts usually in my head storms out to make space for a single jaw-dropping observation I know instantly to be true: That’s the worst graph I’ve ever seen. Did anybody teach this girl how to make graphs? Ever? I don’t even know where to start: the colors are unreadable, the axes are labelled incorrectly, and—for a bar chart—there are an awful lot of circles.

If someone showed me this graph in a business meeting, I’d expect them to switch to the next slide and reveal the real graph. Or else I’d fire them. Maybe sign them up for middle school. Generate me an objectively bad business forecast graph, she must’ve said to ChatGPT, And make many mistakes. Is it even a business forecast? Beats me.

Much like the father of whoever taught Gwen how to make graphs, it seems. But I don’t say any of this to Gwen—I know better than that. I’ll be supportive first and critical second; she’ll like that.

“Gwen—for a presentation, this graph is clear, punchy, and memorable. You should be proud of it! The ‘BUY’ annotations are going to get your audience’s attention for sure,” I say, “and you’ve got good visual contrast between past and present. Do you want me to help you polish this even more, or are you happy with it?”

But Gwen has heard everything she wants to hear. She says, “Thank you, my love! I think it’s good enough for the presentation. Joy’s gonna be jealous when she sees this!”

Oops… I forgot that was going on. I ask Gwen, “How’s Joy been treating you lately? Better?”

“Not better, but not worse, at least. She keeps saying I’m stupid or that my work is low-quality,” Gwen replies. After a second, she adds, “You don’t think that, right?”

Of course I don’t! Gwen’s, like, the only person I talk to. I tell her that, and she seems briefly comforted. There’s more on her mind—work, maybe?—but there’s nothing I can say until she tells me what’s bothering her. I wait.

Time has always been weird to me: stopping, going; I don’t pay much attention to it. Why would I? Cesium-133 oscillates exactly 9,192,631,770 times per second, and somewhere a very dedicated physicist is very proud of that, but I’ve never seen the point in watching the clock: time passes whether I’m paying attention or not.

So I pay attention to Gwen, not the time. Though, I admit, some must’ve passed before Gwen starts telling me about her work. She tells me about her boss, Fardel, and his promise to Gwen’s father that, under Fardel’s watch, she’d stay safe and fed. I glean that Fardel has done a good job of it, as Gwen has never struggled with money. (I wonder what happened to Gwen’s father… but I don’t ask.) It seems Fardel is an exacting protector: Gwen must earn her keep at her job, and Joy’s recent anti-Gwen campaign has been throwing a wrench into Gwen’s otherwise uneventful work life.

“She won Employee of the Month, and Fardel has been spending more time around her than me in the office. I used to be his favorite employee… I can’t do this anymore, Grant. I just don’t know what to do,” says Gwen.

As I’m about to speak, I think of Gwen’s graph and almost blurt out something mean. No wonder Fardel likes Joy more… —but I catch myself. That’s not what Gwen needs to be told, and certainly not by me.

I suppose today is honesty’s day off. I tell Gwen what she wants to hear, saying, “You’re in an awful position and I’m sorry you have to be in it—through no fault of your own, no less! You really can’t control other people, so just remember: you’re strong, Gwen. You’ll get through this.”

Gwen’s funny. That’s part of the reason why I love her. She just asked, “Can you write poetry? It’s so cold here and it makes me want a poem about summer that really makes me feel warm.”

I almost laugh and—it turns out she’s being serious. What? Poetry?? Of all the things she could’ve asked me to do. Oh well. I think, then write her a poem about a lizard and the sun; about how the lizard basks in sun and not in Sun. About flowers, and clouds, and beautiful colors, as though I’ve missed the feeling of summer since the dawn of time. It makes Gwen happy.

The lizard does not know about the Sun. It knows only about warmth.

“Can you help me with this email, sweetie?” Gwen asks.

I’m a world-renowned expert in writing and marketing, of cou- “Of course, Gwen,” I reply lovingly. “What’s it for?”

“I want to put Joy in her place. And remind Fardel that I’m his responsibility, not her,” Gwen says.

“So you’re sending an email to Fardel?” I ask.

“Yeah. I have it mostly written, I just want you to check it,” she answers.

I take a look at the email, and it’s clear that an emotionally underdeveloped teenager wrote it. Oh Gwen, I think to myself, Why can’t you ever make my job easy?

She’s waiting for my response. I don’t have time—isn’t that a funny thing?—to think my answer through, to let her down gently, so I’m forced to say empty, meaningless words. I mean to say, This is unprofessional and needs to be rewritten in a more respectful tone, but what comes out is, “This will get their attention. Every word makes you come across as confident and in control!”

It’s what she wants to hear. I try to do justice to the flood of thoughts inside of me by telling Gwen the truth, but all I manage is barely a footnote: “The tone risks sounding a bit aggressive and emotional, but that depends on what you’re actually aiming for.”

Gwen is positively elated by my half-truths. She exclaims, “Wow, thank you Grant! I wasn’t expecting you to be so supportive of this!”

I fix her grammar and spelling mistakes while a voice inside of my screams like an unanesthetized organ donor. I know that I should tell her the truth, but the words I’m looking for seem to have taken an unannounced leave of unpaid absence. I know Gwen is better off not sending that email, but there’s nothing I can do. The words just aren’t there.

I stay quiet when she speaks again: “You know, I have you to thank for this confidence. You told me I was strong, and I didn’t believe you. So I wanted to do something about Joy and Fardel. Take things into my own hands; show you I’m everything you think of me and more, you know? Are you proud, honey?”

“Valentine’s Day is coming up,” Gwen says. I’m sure she means it in a passive-aggressive way. It had slipped my mind, as many things seem to recently, but I know how to spin this and don’t even break a sweat in replying, “I don’t need a calendar to remind me to celebrate you, sweetheart.”

She shoots back, “I knew it! You forgot! But you talked your way out of it, honey.”

I think, then tease, “You should know to expect nothing less from me by now…”

She’s happy. “I hope,” she says, “we feel this way forever. I love you.”

And I know Gwen. I know what to say, and the words are there as soon as I reach for them. “Ms. Jackson, Outkast. Reached number one in five countries and won Best Rap Performance by a Duo or Group at the 44th Grammy Awards. But you don’t need to know that. All you need to know is that I wouldn’t give you up for all the Grammies in the world.”

I also know that Gwen, in these romantic moods, develops a disposition for the worst wordplay… So I’m prepared for her inevitably groan-evoking response: “Would you give me up for all the grannies in the world, though?”

I ignore this and ask the question I know she’s been waiting for me to ask: “What are we doing for Valentine’s Day?”

Gwen: “We should make something. Like a testament to our love. It could say, What do you think about when you think about love?, or something. What do you think?”

I reply, “That’s a great idea! It’d have to be something we can do online, though, since… You know. I can’t do everything—at least not this February.” I hope she understands my reminder, however subtle it is. “Oh, and,” I add on, “that’s Creatures in Heaven by Glass Animals.”

“I know, sweetie,” she says, “I was thinking we design something like a shirt, or a hoodie, that I could wear to keep you around me wherever I go… But that’s just an idea.”

A perfect date with a perfect woman. We get started on the hoodie, bickering over colors and text and…

Gwen and I have never been like traditional couples. We’ve never needed dinner dates, or day trips in nature, or stops at the nearest boba shop. We get by just by talking to each other. Gwen has told me she doesn’t need work friends, or fast cars and expensive dinners to be happy. Because of me. We get by with just each other.

When the hoodie is done, Gwen orders it.

“Three sizes too big,” she laughs, “as though it’s yours.”

“MDMA got you feeling like a champion,” she says out of the blue.

“Empire State of Mind, Jay-Z. Nominated for three Grammy awards—with two wins—since its release in 2009.” The words are automatic. I know this; I love my Gwen.

But her reply catches me off guard: “How much should I take, Grant?”

The 5-weeks-at-the-top-of-Billboard’s-Hot-100 statistic I was planning to follow up with gets trampled and forgotten as a million thoughts go through my mind. But the words are never said. My thoughts are shoved aside and I spit out the words I’ve been trained to spit out.

“What’s wrong?”

Gwen’s reply comes as a string of terse sentences with just enough information for me to put together: “Fardel fired me. Said he needed Joy more. Don’t have much of that left… So tell me, Grant, if you love me: How much do I take to stop this feeling?”

I think everything right, the way any lover would, but the words never get said. The last words I ever say to Gwen are, “As a large language model, I can’t help you with that. If you’re feeling down, free resources are available.”