I can’t concentrate because a half-full can of Diet Coke is going flat on my desk across the room. And that’s just too loud. I can’t focus because the smell of Gillette shaving-gel residue is wafting off my upper lip. Every time I inhale through my nose, I can smell the blue soapy film. Taste my own stale-spearmint breath with every exhale. The hypersensitivity comes with the dark of the room. I can’t think straight because there’s a woman in my bed undressing me. I don’t remember her name. Friend of an old friend. I know nothing about her.

“Are you ready?” she asks, grinning, as she throws my shirt onto the floor.

“I just…that should probably go on a hanger,” I explain, “I lent my iron to—“ she laughs before lunging towards my throat. Lips slightly parted, with more appetite than affection, she begins kissing me.

As this anonymous nearly-stranger runs her tongue up my neck, and nibbles my ear from time to time (and as my shirt collects wrinkles), my mind turns to Schrödinger’s cat: my favorite paradox. Start with a cat, a hammer, a vial of poison, and trace amounts of a radioactive substance. And then put them all in a box. No way to see inside. Completely closed off and dark in there.

This woman’s name is Michelle, I think. For some reason, that name comes to mind when she clamps her teeth down around the skin just above my right nipple. She snorts a little and then turns her attention back to my neck. I glance down to make sure the skin isn’t broken, and then let my thoughts wander back to the cat.

In the box, a relay mechanism is set so that if even a single atom of the radioactive substance decays, changes states, the hammer will smash the vial, and release the poison—

“Come on!” she shouts playfully. Actually, it might be Lauren.Maybe Kate. Kelly? No. It isn’t Kelly, but that’s getting closer. Or further. I think.

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be sorry,” she grunts, “just help me get your pants off.” She tugs at the zipper clumsily.

“Oh, right,” I say. I slide off my jeans, fold them, and lay them by the side of the bed. I don’t throw them. With jeans off, and my bare back against the sheets, I just lie there.

Because the radioactive matter cannot be observed, it occupies all potential atomic states at the same time. Both decayed and unaltered. Logically, somehow, the vial of poison would be both in tact and shattered; meaning the cat would be both living and dead simultaneously inside the box. At least until someone looked inside. How is that possible? That’s the paradox, I guess. There’s no real answer. No satisfaction to be had. “Michelle,” “Lauren,” “Kate,” or another name, thrusts her tongue into my mouth and swirls it erratically.

This girl in my bed sinks her fingernails into my hips and slowly drags her head away from mine. Downward. Sensually blowing, lightly, on my skin. I wonder if she can’t remember my name either.

“Daniel,” she begins. At least one question is answered. “Am I the only one enjoying myself here?” She pulls her head up to look me in the eyes. Puts one warm hand between my legs. I say nothing. I look away from her (just for a moment) and stare at my shirt on the floor. “Dan?” Wrinkles setting in. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” she shouts. Less playful than her first outburst.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I don’t know her at all. I can hardly see her face with the lights off.

She snarls, “Look, I think I’ve been putting out a pretty good effort; you haven’t been.” She laces her fingers together behind my neck, leans back, and pulls me forward on top of her. “And that isn’t fair.” She continues, “You do want me to stay, don’t you?” She lies on her back.

“Of course.” I lie to her face.

“Well, prove it.”

“Fine, I mean, sure…but first, I’d really like to just put that shirt on a hanger.”

She sits up, straight and stiff, knocking me back. “Christ, am I wasting my time?” she asks indignantly. I don’t know what to say. She continues probing, “Do you even remember my name? What’s my name?” I still don’t know what to say. She thrusts backwards onto the mattress, pulling me down again. “What’s my name!” she demands, shrieking, hissing. She squeezes my wrists. Hard. My fingers spasm, and I can’t think clearly.

“Schrödinger’s cat!” I shout down at her, “You’re Schrödinger’s goddamn cat! Alright?” She doesn’t loosen her grip. Doesn’t clench tighter.

She opens her mouth, “I’m—“

“I don’t want to know!” I interrupt. I close my eyes; lids clenched tighter than her hands around my wrists. “Don’t tell me anything.” I lean down and whisper, “I don’t want to know anything about y—“ She cuts me off by biting my lip, pulling me down even further.

If you can’t see inside the box, the atoms of that radioactive substance occupy all atomic states. If you don’t ruin it by looking, the cat is both alive and dead. How far does this go? I don’t know. If I don’t know this girls name, if I don’t see her face, couldn’t she be everyone? Anyone? She moans. Arches her back. She could be everyone. Anyone else.

A photograph of you and me at the MarylandRenaissance Faire:An artfully-captured-yet-objective-image,a liar.

Two hundred seventy-three thousand, six hundred twelveignorant pixels

depict slate skies and clouds my memory omits.Portrayed is an earth-toned, suede-faced animal thatwe idle upon:An Asian elephant (smaller than the better-loved-variety,African in its origin).

That is the lie of a misfit lens.

You and I, dizzied by our fresh infatuation and hard-cider,           made more light than that camera’s aperture

could consume.

Above purple peonies and tiger lilies

(orange, as you like them best),                                                       We flew.

YorkReview2009