When Elle asks if she can kiss Jenny, Jenny’s arguing that cereal is a viable breakfast option, contrary to what those caught up in the great health craze want you to believe—protein’s big moment, according to Jenny’s coworkers.
“If you have it with whole milk, not skim,” Jenny says. “Those good fats. Not to make a value judgment,” they quickly add, and as they speak, they can feel the argument’s inanity, but Elle’s the one who asked if Jenny is a breakfast person, making Jenny marvel at the way in which meals can be used as adjectives. How any noun can become a descriptor, worth using to describe yourself. As if describing yourself is one’s purpose in life.
“If you were a burrito,” Elle had said earlier, “what kind would you be? What fillings, or toppings?”
“Huh.” Jenny scratched their cheek. “Bell peppers? Or tofu? Tofu because I’m soft. And something straight men avoid.” They smiled and shrugged, and Elle laughed.
The question was prompted by their dinner location, which Jenny chose. They’d taken turns planning dates, with Elle picking first, then Jenny, then Elle, and back to Jenny for this, the fourth.
You haven’t been? Jenny asked over text a few days before, referring to the restaurant. It’s great. Like a Chipotle, but better. Right down the street from my place.
After sending, they worried that Elle might think they were being suggestive, as in, not far from my bed, which isn’t what they meant. Really, Jenny suggested the burrito place because it was a low-stakes commitment. They felt uneasy about leading someone to believe that they had time to prioritize dating when all of life’s forces pulled them otherwise, as if conspiring, colluding, shaking Jenny awake to a thousand small noises sounding an alarm. Something needs to change, life seemed to be saying. But it didn’t give specifics.
You should let yourself have a fun night, a friend texted. Really, what is life if not time
What is time if not money? Jenny said.
Forever running out
I might be too weird for her, Jenny texted back. She’s mentally well. It’s crazy. She’s done nothing strange. Nothing at all
Lol, the friend answered. That’s strange in itself. Especially these days. It’s impossible to be well. Unless you’re a psychopath
Jenny laughed at the message. They remembered when they were in their early twenties and their dad warned that they should do a background check on every man they date—or every man she dates, in his parlance—because you never know. Jenny’s dad might not be as worried about women and psychopathy, but he would be worried about Jenny dating women, what that would mean for them, and him, and their family, if he knew. Maybe I’m a psychopath, Jenny said, replying to their friend.
Nah, the friend said. You care too much. You’re just avoidant
Jenny laughed again. After texting more about their friend’s relationship status, Jenny concluded that it couldn’t hurt, they might as well go on a fourth date—a number they rarely reached, they realized, when they paused to think.
So they made an easy plan. Invite Elle to grab a burrito, catch up on the past few weeks. Maybe they’d kiss at the end, and that could give a better sense for what to do moving forward. It was impressive, really, that they’d waited this long to be physically intimate—maybe I should try NOT rushing into sex for once, they’d texted their friend days before re-downloading dating apps. No more drunken hookups! they proclaimed. So after a quick dinner, they could go to sleep early—walk back and fall asleep with their cat in the double-bed that filled half of their studio apartment.
Somehow, however, they find themself here, on the second floor of a lesbian bar, a historic site of their drunkenness—though now they’re sipping soda water, which is an unheralded success—having consented to kissing this person who politely asked.
“I’m sorry,” Elle said moments before. “I can’t focus on what you’ve been saying. I’ve been thinking about how much I want to kiss you.”
That’s not exactly what Jenny had been thinking, which could’ve been a bad sign. But that’s the thing—they needed to think less. Or, at least, they needed to think with their heart rather than their head, their therapist says. As if that made sense.
Jenny is amused, now, seeing the scene from above as it plays out: two thirty-one-year-olds making out on a couch in public, doors down from a pink doughnut shop along the longest road in the country. The road—or rather, the commercial stretch of the road, which everyone knows—is the right distance for a marathon, so people run marathons along it, Jenny told Elle, who mentioned completing marathons. But not that marathon, since she’s new to the city, and thus, newly experiencing the lesbian bar.
It was a stark contrast, stepping into the dark space—with its sludgy floors, black walls, rainbow flags and lights flashing neon—after being out in the spring day’s sun. Jenny wanted to keep walking, but Elle showed excitement when they walked past. Before stepping in, Jenny swallowed hard. They thought back to when they were new to the city, almost a decade back, when there was louder resentment toward newcomers, and wonders if, now, they are one who resents more than being resented—if they’re neither, or both.
“That’s super impressive,” Jenny said to Elle about the marathon. They discussed this at dinner an hour earlier while waiting to order, shuffling along the assembly line that permitted them to contribute to the making of their own burrito, to select toppings that ostensibly reflected their personalities—what they desired, what they were.
“I’m a chorizo kind of girl,” Elle said. “Not onion, not olives. But I wouldn’t be opposed to pickles.”
This made Jenny laugh, earnestly, seeing strangeness in Elle—but Elle was quick to say she was kidding, she was thinking of electrolytes, how her cross country coach encouraged them to drink pickle juice straight from the jar to prevent cramping. Turns out, Elle is big into running, which is part of her evening routine. Not only that, but every morning, she wakes up at 5 and attends a HIIT class.
“I love classes like that,” Jenny said, pleased to share such an interest. Jenny wanted to explain that they’re athletic, but not in the long-distance running sense—though they aspire to be a runner like they aspire to spend less time on their phone, and to be vegan. They also aspire to keep a routine, to move through the motions of hygiene sequentially, rather than chaotically, sometimes forgetting steps. One day, too, they’d like to shop only at farmer’s markets and local grocery stores, like Elle. Being in a relationship with Elle would make them a better person, Jenny determines.
The subject of dietary preferences came up, as it does, on Date #1, when they ate cookies, and again on Date #2, when they drank mezcal. A natural progression, Jenny thought. It’s something Jenny would never do—step inside a shop devoted to a single type of bakery item, fork over the money for a cookie as flat and large as a dinner plate—but Elle noticed the sign and suggested they take a detour, an improvised part of her plan, a walk in the park. It was a fast walk, too—which Jenny might attribute to nervous energy if Elle wasn’t strikingly calm, more likely one who saw, in all things, an opportunity for exercise. Jenny used to be like that. As they walked, couples pedalled swan boats across the small lake—or giant pond, depending on your perspective, Elle said. She talked about macrophages and cytokines, and research she’s doing on nutrition and stress in low-income kids with divorced parents, for her PhD in neurology and psychology. Jenny was struck by this, how Elle is intelligent and curious—working to understand. And it made sense, then, the fact that she consistently dressed like a therapist, in beige cardigans over white camisoles. Slacks, ballet flats. One day, she’d be a social worker for kids and young adolescents.
“Queer kids,” Elle said. “So they can have the love and support I was lucky enough to have. Which reminds me. What pronouns do you use?”
Jenny felt inordinately grateful when people asked, and inordinately embarrassed at the strength of their gratitude. Using gender-neutral pronouns was new, and a source of doubt, because it called attention to itself, requiring others to put forth mental effort and think about Jenny more than they already did, which is the opposite of what they wanted. Really, they didn’t want to be considered. Or not, at least, as a woman, despite their feminine name, which was a sore point.
“If you could change your name,” Elle said, toward the end of Date #2. “What would you change it to?”
Technically, they could change their name—just as anyone could—but Jenny didn’t feel aligned with any alternative. They said they weren’t sure and volleyed the question back to Elle, who said she was happy with hers.
It was a good name, Jenny thought, and proceeded to order their fourth drink, while Elle continued sipping her first.
“Alcohol doesn’t do that much for me,” she explained.
Jenny couldn’t help but feel envious, and a little drunk. “If I could—if I was mentally well, like you, I’d be a therapist too,” they said. “I like talking to people. And asking questions.”
“You’re good at asking questions,” Elle said.
“And if I was mentally well,” Jenny continued. “I’d sell my eggs.”
Elle laughed and raised her eyebrows.
“It’s good money,” Jenny said, serious. “The world is expensive. Especially for someone who is doomed, apparently, to the nonprofit realm. It’s like, I can’t function if whatever job I have isn’t meaningful. I’m fated to a low budget.”
“I can only imagine,” Elle said, empathetically.
Jenny had already told Elle about their workplace, how it was overstimulating, how they loved their coworkers. It was an anti-hunger organization—looked like a food pantry on the surface, Jenny explained, but they did work in a bigger way, helping individuals procure benefits, find housing. They grew gardens, talked policy. Tried to make systemic change.
“Amazing,” Elle said, and scooted closer to Jenny, who was busy scolding themself for what they said before, for unattractively joking about being broke and mentally ill. Surely, they presented as a basket case rather than a basket of something appealing, like apples, or roses.
Woah, their friend messaged when Jenny used the phrase. The phrase “basket case” comes from WWI, a rumor about men who were dismembered being carted around in baskets
Oh god. Gnarly, Jenny said, with a grimacing emoji. Maybe she likes dating messy people, like a true therapist. Always on the job
Your kids would turn out well. What happens when a workaholic and an alcoholic get together?
Jenny laughed out loud. After all, Elle didn’t seem dissuaded by their disclosures. Around 11 p.m., the two went separate ways, but Jenny sensed some communication in how Elle held the hug longer than the average person might. On the other hand, Jenny couldn’t make sense of Elle’s confusing affect—how she narrowed her eyes and smiled in such a way that could either be interpreted as psychoanalyzing or fantasizing about Jenny sitting on her face, even when discussing banalities like the weather and dog breeds. It was all the more strange because, in moments, Elle seemed more like a doll than a woman—likely related to the fact that she was 5’0”, according to her profile. Not that height was a variable Jenny seriously considered—if anything, in this case, it worked complementarily, since they fit together in a puzzle-piece sense, like Elle was one of the pet rocks Jenny clutched when they were a kid.
The day after meeting for drinks, Elle messaged to ask when they could see each other again. When it became clear that their schedules wouldn’t align, Elle insisted on making time, offering to bring sandwiches during Jenny’s lunch break on her way to the airport, off to visit her mother in Sacramento for a week.
Jenny hesitated before agreeing. At work, they’d typically grab something from the warehouse—like yogurt reaching its last moments or a microwavable rice pouch. They’d work on paperwork through the break and leave a little early. But when they thought about it, it seemed nice to eat something fresh and typical, like a sandwich, with a woman who did such typical things, and who was sweet enough to take the initiative. They were also intrigued by the intimacy burgeoning between them—though the flame was tenuous enough to run the risk of being extinguished without consistent, little blows of breath, which would be made difficult by Elle’s travel, right before a camping trip, followed by full weeks of work for both and booked-up subsequent weekends.
Since when was life as a single person so busy? Jenny would wonder. They compulsively opened and closed the dating app, not wanting to continue scrolling, not wanting to stop. Their connection with Elle felt pleasant—but was “pleasant” enough?
In the bar, Elle moans, rolling her head back, then toward Jenny, nipping at their neck. Elle’s hands move more intently from Jenny’s collarbone to their breasts, on which Jenny tries to focus attention, which is simultaneously simple and challenging, thanks to the sports bra that presses their too-big chest to their torso in a vice grip, like a body-wide rubber band. One of those solutions that’s on par with the problem.
Elle shifts her weight onto her knees so she’s straddling Jenny, maximizing points of contact. Jenny wonders how they’d look if someone saw or heard them, mouths closing and opening. Jenny thinks of fish, wondering if they look like fish, if their movements look organic, if the sounds Elle is making are real, more sounds than the occasion calls for, Jenny thinks. But that’s not fair. Why are they such a critic? Elle is just embodied. She pushes her hips up against the base of Jenny’s torso, which is twisted toward Elle, while their legs still face forward, too big to fit on the couch—the starched, scratchy couch which must have furnished who knew how many gropings over the years, Jenny thinks. Hopefully, mostly consensual.
“You’re so, so—sexy. I like kissing you,” Elle says. She brushes the bottom of Jenny’s ear, then down the center of their chest like she’s drawing a line, splitting the rib cage in half.
“Thanks,” Jenny says. “Me too. Or, I mean, I like kissing you too. You’re sexy.”
Jenny cringes at what they’ve said. Sexy is a word that’s never felt right. When spoken, it feels like a lie, optimistic rather than descriptive. Or maybe Jenny has the wrong ideas about what should be discussed and what should go unmentioned. Maybe Elle is attracted to them just because of their body—which is ironic, given the doubt that saturated their past, how ugly they felt, how they couldn’t believe former partners who said they weren’t. What a luxury those worries seem like now, the ones that filled one’s late teens and twenties, back when beauty seemed like the piece that would complete the loneliness puzzle—out of reach, but able to be found. Now, securing a life partner is no more glamorous than summoning the patience, the forbearance to search, search, and search, to find someone who’s aligned with—or can tolerate—your preferences and habits, lifestyle and budget.
Elle sits up. She pushes her hair back and grabs her drink, finishing it with an ice-slurping sound, draining the gin and tonic from the bottom of the glass.
“You know what?” she says. “I think I’ll get another. Maybe even a beer. Want one?”
Jenny picks up their own sweating glass of soda water, which they’ve barely touched. They don’t need a beer, no—they need to be clear-minded, sleep well, and wake up fresh. That being said, Elle’s the one who asked. And this is a date, time to relax. As good as intentions can be, they only get a small role in the larger play of things.
“Sure. Why not,” Jenny says and smiles. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” Elle stands and turns toward the stairs. “What kind?”
“How about—” Jenny stops before saying they’ll take the strongest and cheapest one on draft— “whatever you’re having.”
Elle nods and smiles, touching her lip to wipe away what might have been Jenny’s spit. “Be right back,” she says.
When she’s out of sight, Jenny slinks back, deeper into the couch. They don’t want to, but they think of their friend. They manage to resist for a handful of seconds, but soon it’s overpowering, the urge to extract their phone from their back pocket and send a message.
Interesting things here, they text. Idk if my sex drive has left the room, at the most inconvenient time. Or if I’m not into her
They wait, thumbs tapping the black screen. After a moment, they’re happy to see an answer.
Been there. That’s been happening to me with Taylor. Did you get the ick?
Jenny frowns, trying to pinpoint it. They think about the previous dates—nothing negative with #1. A bit of blurriness around #2, thanks to the drinks. There was that moment, they remember, when they were sitting at the bar and Elle asked a question—what might be a classic, gay requisite pulled from some queer canon. “When did you first know?” she said.
It bothered Jenny, the fact that straight people don’t have to talk about such a thing, that women who date men don’t need to provide a historical account of their proclivity. And the idea that anything could be distilled down to one moment, when life was emergent.
Jenny had taken a gulp of their beer and set it back down on the coaster, which was soggy. “I don’t think it was a lightning bolt,” they said. “More like a slow evolution.” They paused to take another drink. “Even when I first kissed a woman, I didn’t feel anything.”
Elle raised her eyebrows.
“Don’t get me wrong—I did later,” Jenny added. “I just, I think I had to warm up to the idea. There’s something about my brain and my body. It takes time for them to get on the same page.”
“Right. That makes sense.” Elle smiled encouragingly. She spoke in a tone that made Jenny feel like a client, a child she therapized. “When you were little, though? Were there signs?” she pressed.
Jenny scratched their chin. “Honestly, not that I can remember. I didn’t understand what sex was at all. Didn’t know that pleasure was a thing.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. My parents, you know, were super conservative.”
Elle nodded, and Jenny wondered if they were less of an interesting queer person without such a history—if backstory played an essential role, like it did for superheroes.
“What about you?” Jenny said. “There was a moment when you knew?”
Elle looked pleased to be asked. “My nanny.” She blushed. “That sounds weird. She was our babysitter, you know—a teenager, not an old lady. But I was so little. Only five.”
Jenny had nodded and smiled, unsure of how to respond. Now, they force themself to look up from their phone and around the room. Their eyes are drawn to a strand of multicolored lights that, at some point since their time on the couch, have switched on. It stretches along the railing and up to the ceiling, past posters of drag queens. Right beside the stairs, Jenny sees a large stone Buddha, perched on the ledge like a bird, not quite smiling and not quite frowning. It’s strange—normally those things are smiling, Jenny thinks, if they’re remembering correctly? It’s a big, gray creature. Not bashful, but not imposing.
I don’t think it’s the ick, Jenny texts back. But maybe I want something about her to be different
Jenny’s therapist wouldn’t like this answer. “What do you like about her?” the therapist had asked last week, when talking about Elle. “Can you focus on what interests you, rather than what doesn’t?”
When Jenny first saw Elle on the app, they appreciated the picture of her standing in front of a research poster at a conference. She stood out against the many Patagonia-clad women donning snowboards or skis, and ones holding a warrior pose in front of macramé plant hangers and tapestries. Another picture showed Elle sitting in a wooden canoe on a glassy river. It looked like thatched roofs in the background, outside the country—but it seemed that she was comfortable there, not a tourist bent on extracting experience.
Jenny hears footsteps clodding up the stairs at the same time they feel their phone vibrate once, then twice.
“Here we go,” Elle says, appearing, holding the necks of two bottles of Blue Moon.
Jenny sits up, smiling and tucking their phone facedown between the couch and their thigh. “Thanks,” they say, reminding themself that not every beer needs to be strong and delicious. It’s better this way. It’s what they deserve for going against their own resolve.
“Don’t forget about self-compassion, Jenny,” their therapist said on many occasions. “Be gentle with yourself.”
Before they know it, they’re making out again. Jenny tries to take a deep breath, but inhales Elle’s hair. It’s brown, soft, and delicate, held back by a dainty scrunchy at the base of her neck, with wisps falling out. Her skin is soft too—preternaturally soft, tan, and smooth. She smells like essential oils, but Jenny couldn’t say which one. The softness is almost unnerving, Jenny thinks, and feels warty in comparison, with smatterings of freckles and moles, like a toad. Or like a briny, bumpy pickle.
“What?” Elle says, tilting her head and looking up. “What are you laughing at?”
Jenny shakes their head. “Nothing,” they say, still smiling, which is the opposite of reassuring.
“What is it? Come on.” Elle tries to sound playful, but seems concerned.
“Nothing, really,” Jenny says. “It’s just—” they laugh. “It’s just funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“Everything.” Jenny shrugs. They gesture vaguely toward the room. “Everything is funny. Look at where we are. No one else is here.”
Elle glances around, takes a sip of her beer, manages a smile. Then she moves her hand to Jenny’s stomach, hip, waistband.
It occurs to them that they don’t want to be here. A small rectangular window high on the wall shows that the day is slipping, almost gone. In the silence, Elle shifts, and Jenny hears the suction sounds of skin pulling apart. Sweat between. They feel tired, and embarrassed—they’re too old to be pushing each other’s shirts and bras up like this in public, when they can go to one of their apartments. That’s the logical next step.
Jenny sits up. Elle turns and tugs down her camisole which has gotten caught under her bra, revealing something on her hip—a cursive letter in ink.
“What’s that?” Jenny asks, grateful for something to say.
“A tattoo,” Elle says.
“Well, yeah. But what is it?”
Elle twists, pulling the camisole up. “Bahala na,” she says, dragging her finger across the word as if she were reading it like a line in a storybook.
“Bahala-la what?”
“Bahala na. It’s a Filipino phrase.”
“Oh. That’s cool. What does it mean?”
“It pretty much means letting go. Leaving things in the hands of fate.”
Jenny nods. “That’s nice,” they say. “I need more of that in my life.”
“Yeah, I get the sense that you like to control things.”
Jenny blinks, then laughs, uncertainly. “What?”
“No, I don’t mean it like that, nothing rude! It’s just something I noticed. Probably because I’m controlling too, at times.”
“Right,” Jenny says, forcing a smile.
Elle tugs her shirt back over her hip. She reaches over and taps her fingers playfully on Jenny’s arm. “Do you have any tattoos?”
“No,” Jenny says, then finds themself glancing at their watch. “What do you think? Should we get going?”
Elle lets out a breath. She presses her forehead against Jenny’s chest, and Jenny freezes, not sure what to say next. After a moment, Elle pulls away and starts to push her arms through her cardigan’s sleeves. She struggles, then laughs. “I’m kind of tipsy,” she says.
Jenny wonders how that’s possible, given the one mixed drink and sip of beer she had. They finish the last of theirs and scoot to the edge of the couch. They feel their legs bounce. Somehow, they’re hungry again. It seemed like they ate a lot, since they ordered nachos—but they did end up sharing it with Elle.
“Please, help me, this is huge,” Jenny said as they set the basket down, gesturing to the nachos, ordered on a whim, partially because Elle ogled it on the menu. “And you can save that for lunch tomorrow,” Jenny said, pointing at Elle’s burrito—still wrapped in foil and pushed aside—remembering how she mentioned that her days had been so long and work-filled, she’d been forgetting to eat.
“Aw. Thank you,” Elle said, smiling, then going to grab napkins. When she returned, they both became absorbed in plucking chips from the platter that was replete with zucchini and corn, salsa and tofu. They ate, talking about work and the upcoming weekend. What struck Jenny as strange was when Jenny stood to refill their water cups, and when they came back, Elle had taken the liberty of tossing crumpled-up napkins on the nachos, as if to say, they both must be finished.
“It’s so nice out,” Elle said, standing. “What if we take a walk? Maybe—” she glanced around, then pointed arbitrarily— “this way?”
“Yeah, sure,” Jenny said, then paused to consider. Elle had smiled quickly, and Jenny was surprised, really, at how pleased she seemed. So they picked up their things and Elle grabbed the burrito, nestling it in the crook of her arm like a baby, or a football. Walking toward the sidewalk, they passed the trash can, and Elle didn’t even pause before tossing it in.
Jenny frowned. “You’re not going to save it?”
“No,” Elle said. “It’ll get gross, sitting out for hours.” She reached for Jenny’s hand and smiled, and Jenny smiled back, feeling distracted. As they walked, they passed several tents and folks with boomboxes and sleeping bags, shopping carts and baskets. The burrito could’ve fed one or two, if Elle hadn’t been so wasteful, or thoughtless.
“Is that an obsessive thought, or an authentic thought?” Jenny’s therapist would have said. “Curious mind, or worried?”
It was obsessive, yes. Maybe curious and worried—maybe something else.
“Does pursuing this relationship seem authentic to you? Or would you rather be investing in others?” their therapist would continue.
Their friend would find it funny—all of it, the burrito toss, the supreme stiffness of the couch, Jenny thinks. Now, in a practical sense, it would be nice to have the burrito for Elle to eat to help her sober up before driving home. Not that she’s too drunk to drive—right? She can’t be.
“I’m sorry, my hand’s wet,” Elle says, grabbing Jenny’s, after drinking a wax cup of water. She wipes her palm on a pant leg and laughs. “It’s so fun here. We should come back! This is your neighborhood?”
Jenny says, “Sort of,” and forges on through the thick of the bar that’s filling like a bathtub with people and sound. After squeezing between two groups, past a bouncer, and through the main door, they’re on the quiet sidewalk.
“Wow. It’s cold,” Elle says, folding her arms. She follows Jenny in the direction of the restaurant, her car, and Jenny’s apartment—a walk that’s too quick, not giving Jenny time to decide what should happen.
Why does the way back always feel so much faster than the way there? they imagine messaging their friend. Prob because you know where you’re going, they’d add. You know where you want to end up, and you know the path
Jenny becomes aware of Elle’s hand in theirs once they stop walking, and Elle takes it back.
“This is me,” Elle says.
“No, that’s not you. That’s your car,” Jenny says.
Elle looks at them and blinks before smiling and tilting her head. “Which way are you?” she asks.
“I don’t think I have a way,” Jenny says and frowns. They know they sound like a child. “But my apartment is over there,” they say, gesturing. For a moment, they consider not asking, but then they do. “Are you okay to drive?”
Elle exhales slowly. “Yeah,” she says. She sounds uncertain, but Jenny imagines it might be uncertainty around how the conversation is ending, how they are wrapping up the night.
“Okay. Well. Get home safe,” Jenny says.
“You too,” Elle responds.
Jenny lingers. They shift from foot to foot, feeling obliged, but no desire to reach out for a hug. Finally they smile and nod, then turn to walk. When they glance back, they see Elle’s face, and rather than sadness, she looks at Jenny with pity, or something complicated.
They turn again, seeing the restaurant, and then the trash can on the sidewalk, the one into which Elle tossed her burrito. There’s a person sitting on the ground beside it, with legs stretching over the curb, humming some tune. Jenny leans forward to get a glimpse and notices how comfortable the person is, wearing shorts and a stained white t-shirt, with scrawny and tanned arms and legs. Jenny’s stomach signals hunger again, and they have a crazy thought, or a compulsion, to look inside the trash. Jenny goes so far as to step forward, crane their neck, at which point they have a better view of the person who is so immersed in an activity that they seem startled. They glare up at Jenny, then curl into themself, over what they’re holding. It’s wrapped in aluminum foil, and they’re chewing. As if to say, nothing has been wasted. An interesting thought, Jenny thinks. But they aren’t attached to it or anything.
