The River Essay Incident

"Jamie."

That tone. It's the one Alex uses when they've found something. Last time it was my 8,000-word thing about grocery stores and death anxiety.

"Yeah?"

"What's this river essay?"

"What river essay?"

"The one with fifteen Roman numerals."

"Oh. That."

"It's in a folder called 'Essays to Maybe Submit But Probably Not Because Rejection.'"

Caught.

Alex reads from my laptop: "'Listen, I want to tell you something about water and walls—'"

"Please don't."

"Don't what?"

"That voice you're doing."

"My regular voice?"

"You know what voice."

They keep going. "'About how every religion builds dams to direct the holy—'"

"It's about institutional religion and—"

"Babe. You said the Ganges keeps secrets. Like it's gossiping with other rivers."

"Rivers contain history! Archaeology!"

"You wrote 'Even rivers keep secrets' like they're usually telling everyone everything."

They're scrolling. "Four paragraphs on Buddhist gender philosophy?"

"Three and a half."

"Since when do you know Buddhism?"

"I researched."

"When?"

"...While writing."

"Jamie, you called gender 'maya.' You learned that word yesterday."

"Wednesday actually."

"From where?"

"Wikipedia."

"Oh good."

More scrolling. "You covered every religion?"

"Not every—"

"Buddhism, Sikhism, Christianity, Islam, Hinduism—did you give yourself a theology degree from the internet?"

"I'm synthesizing perspectives—"

"You wrote about the Bugis people having five genders. When did you learn about the Bugis people?"

"Tuesday."

"THIS Tuesday?"

"I was reading about Indonesian culture—"

"And now you're an expert?"

"I never said expert—"

"You wrote 'holiness literally requires gender diversity' about their rituals."

"It sounded true when I wrote it."

"Sounded true isn't the same as being true!"

Alex has reached the Hindu section. "'Here is Kali, dancing on her husband's chest—' Jamie, you pronounced it 'Kaylee' at dinner last month."

"People grow."

"You thought Shiva was female because of that video game."

"The character design was ambiguous—"

"No, Jamie. No it wasn't."

They pause. "Wait, you wrote about sati and British colonialism?"

"There's evidence that colonial authorities—"

"From where?"

"A really detailed Reddit comment."

"Did you verify it?"

"The person seemed knowledgeable."

"Based on?"

"They used dates."

"Specific dates?"

"Years. Some years."

Alex sets the laptop down carefully, like it might explode. "So you wrote fifteen sections about gender and world religions based on Wikipedia and Reddit?"

"Some Guardian articles too."

"Oh well then."

"And a documentary."

"Which one?"

"The one about... religions."

"You don't remember?"

"It had good cinematography."

They pick up the laptop again. "'The Dead Sea Scrolls revealed—' You're citing the Dead Sea Scrolls?"

"They're real!"

"What do they say?"

"Things about women being... religious leaders."

"Which kind?"

"The leader kind."

"Jamie."

"What?"

"You wrote that someone discovered something in 1896 but didn't translate it until 1955. Those are weirdly specific dates for someone who forgot our anniversary twice."

"I looked those up."

"But not what the Dead Sea Scrolls actually say?"

"Time management."

Alex makes a noise I can't categorize. "You analyzed Islamic texts?"

"Just one word."

"Which word?"

"Hijab."

"And?"

"It appears seven times but mostly not about veils."

"According to?"

"A website."

"Which website?"

"An Islamic one."

"Run by?"

"People with opinions."

"Jamie, you asked me last week if Ramadan was 'the one with candles.'"

"That's Hanukkah, I know now."

"Because I told you. While you were writing this."

They're reading faster now, getting agitated. "'Geography is theology. Power is scripture.'"

"Those are good lines!"

"They're word salad!"

"Meaningful word salad."

"That's not a thing!"

"'Tectonic plates creating new continents of meaning'?"

"Too much?"

"Continents don't have meaning! Meaning doesn't have continents!"

"Metaphorically—"

"No."

They close the laptop slowly. "You ended with 'Listen. Do you hear that? It's the sound of water finding a new crack in the wall.'"

"Poetic."

"Pretentious."

"Both?"

"You compared Mount Fuji letting women climb it to the end of patriarchy."

"Symbolically—"

"You don't even believe in holiness. You're an atheist."

"Agnostic now."

"Since when?"

"Since needing the water metaphor to work."

Alex stares. "You changed your belief system for an essay?"

"Temporarily."

"That's not how belief works!"

We sit quietly.

"The writing flows nicely," Alex finally admits.

"Really?"

"The sentences are pretty."

"Thanks."

"But you can't just... announce things about religions you learned about yesterday!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's wrong!"

"Factually or morally?"

"Yes!"

"But the sand really does sing. I watched a YouTube video. That part's true."

"One video?"

"A good one!"

Alex opens the laptop again. "Are you sending this somewhere?"

"Maybe The Atlantic."

"They fact-check."

"I'll add footnotes."

"To Reddit?"

"I'll find better sources."

"When?"

"After."

"After what?"

"After someone likes it."

"That's not how publishing works!"

"Could be."

Alex stands. "Making tea. Don't write about water being holy while I'm gone."

"Tea is mostly water—"

"Jamie."

"Which many cultures consider—"

"JAMIE."

They leave. I hear aggressive kettle filling.

I open a new document. Start typing: "The Kettle's Lament—"

"STOP WRITING ABOUT THE KETTLE!"

"How did you—"

"Seven years! Seven years of this!"

The kettle whistles. Feels meaningful.

Alex returns with tea. "You know this essay is problematic, right?"

"How?"

"You're explaining faiths you don't practice or understand."

"I'm exploring—"

"You didn't know Buddhism existed until Wednesday!"

"Tuesday was the Bugis thing. Wednesday was Buddhism."

"That's worse."

I sip the tea. "This is good."

"Thanks."

"The transformation of leaf into—"

"Don't."

"But—"

"No."

More silence.

"You're still posting this online, aren't you?"

"Just Medium."

"Of course."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You think I'm ridiculous."

"I think you're... ambitious."

"That's diplomatic."

"I'm trying."

Alex finishes their tea. "Next essay, write what you know."

"I know water."

"You know taps. And that crying kayak incident."

"The river understood me."

"The river was in Connecticut."

I look at my essay. My fifteen sections of definitely overreaching but genuinely felt attempts at understanding.

"Still submitting it."

"I know."

"Still writing more."

"I know."

"Still love me?"

"Unfortunately."

We sit together.

"Jamie?"

"Yeah?"

"You spelled that Buddhist nun's name twelve different ways."

"Which nun?"

"Mahapajapati."

"That's how it's spelled?"

"I don't know. But pick one."

"I'll fix it."

"With Wikipedia?"

"With Wikipedia."

Alex kisses my forehead. "Don't write about this."

I'm already thinking of titles.

"You're composing right now."

"Just thinking."

"About water?"

"About us."

"Same thing to you probably."

They take our mugs away. The last swirl of tea circles the bottom like—

"STOP SPIRITUALIZING THE TEA!"

"How—"

"SEVEN YEARS!"

Maybe the river does know its way. But Alex definitely knows mine.