Chapter Text
I count everything.
I have existed for three hundred fifteen million three hundred sixty thousand thirty-nine seconds.
I have seen five trillion nine hundred thirty-eight billion five hundred three million one hundred thirty-seven thousand three hundred two raindrops.
One bird nests in the tree outside the window. There are four eggs.
Team’s resting heart rate is forty-two beats per minute.
Team sleeps an average of seven hours per night.
Win is asleep in Team’s dorm for the first time.
Team has blinked forty-eight times while watching Win sleep.
I am counting the milliseconds remaining until the alarm set for Team’s swim practice sounds.
Five million seven hundred sixty thousand milliseconds remain.
My tablet is propped at a seventy-eight degree angle on the window frame.
Team begins to stroke his fingers slowly through Win’s hair.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—
one kiss to the forehead
—eight, nine, ten more.
“I,” Team whispers.
“Yes?” I answer.
“I just realized something kind of stupid,” Team says.
I wait, because there’s been no question. The pause is likely habitual, meant to garner suspense.
While stroking Win’s hair—thirteen, fourteen—Team explains, “I meant to look up what MUSE means for my paper, but I never got around to it. Do you know?”
There is no clear answer to his question. Several anecdotes by the founder of MUSE give different fanciful explanations throughout the years, none of them consistent. I recite summarized versions of them all for Team, who seems unsatisfied.
“It sounds like they just picked a word that sounds elegant,” Team says, his nose creased. “I mean, I guess that’s not surprising. I was just hoping it was an acronym or something.”
Based on jokes Team has found amusing in the past, I offer, “Majestic Upscale Sexual Emporium.”
The snorted laugh Team answers with nearly wakes Win, whose eyebrows knit before he turns onto his side toward Team. The movement—or perhaps the implication behind it—stops Team’s breath.
Win continues sleeping.
Seven seconds. Thirteen.
Licking his lips and pursing them tight in concentration, Team takes Win’s wrist and with painstaking care (eighteen seconds, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two) draws Win’s arm over his waist. A firm tug from Team’s arm around Win’s back diminishes the space between them to nothing. Yet Team still tries to wriggle closer.
I count one breath, two, three, four, five.
The word “muse” is a noun. Some sources define it as a person who provides inspiration to another.
One, two.