An Answer in Search of a Question by Bob McHugh

In the time it takes for Marjorie to walk back from the open bar, she has downed her glass of wine.

“We’ve done the introductions and niceties,” she says. “Should we just get to the part everyone expects from the sad singles table?” Without waiting for an answer, she tugs on her dress to reveal the question engraved on her chest: What do you need to make a stew?

“That’s a good one,” says someone named Chuck, I think. “If you include cookware and abstract concepts, that’s gotta be compatible with at least a hundred answers.”

It’s certainly not compatible with mine — 11 months — unless you plan to take your time. The other singles go around the table sharing their engraved questions or answers, except for a woman named Cassie and me.

“No offense, but I prefer to keep it to myself,” Cassie says.

“You got a bad one, huh?” Majorie slurs.

“No,” says Cassie. “I’d just rather not pick a partner based on it. And also, it’s total bullshit. Does anyone else need to refill their drink?” She’s staring directly at me. I happily take her cue.

     “That was pretty great,” I say to her at the bar. She feels like a kindred spirit, even if I subscribe more to the engraved questions and answers than I like to admit. This wedding is pretty good evidence: my pal Maggie’s question — What is the powerhouse of the cell? — is a perfect match for her bride Jun’s Mitochondria. It even matches their professions and dorky sense of humor. And I can’t deny that my answer doesn’t match my penchant for procrastination.

“I’m so glad we’re not dullards who will spend the whole night blathering about the questions,” I say. “Yes, it’s weird that we all have questions cosmically engraved on our bodies, we all get that. But can’t we still talk about meaningless crap? Can’t we keep that small pleasure?”

She punches me on the shoulder in a presumably affectionate fashion. “Exactly! You get it.”

Our conversation lulls for a moment. “So, what do we talk about now?” I ask.

“Hmm. What do you do in your free time?”

“Fail to learn the guitar.”

“No way, me too! What personality defect prevents you from learning?”

“It’s hard, and I’m dumb,” I say. “You?”

“I’ll get super into it, then I’ll remember the world is burning, and everything feels pointless, so I fall off.”

“So, it’s hard, and you’re dumb?”

She laughs. “Yeah, that’s it.”

While the brides are preoccupied with schmoozing their geriatric guests, we gesture conspiratorially at the beachfront. Cassie and I stuff our faces with bleu-cheese popovers before sneaking out together.

“Do you have a question or an answer?” she asks as we walk barefoot along the sand.

“I thought we said that was bullshit?”

“It is bullshit, but it’s still fun to find out. It’s like opening a fortune cookie. And I figure I’ll see it tonight, anyway.”

     I raise my eyebrows performatively.

     “You’re walking with me barefoot on a beach at a wedding reception. I presume you at least want to have sex with me?”

     “Please tell me that’s your question,” I say. “And, obviously, yes, I do.”

     “I’d kill for that to be my question,” she says.

     “Aha, so you admit it’s a question. Don’t tell me Marjorie was right. It’s a bad one?”

     “Yeah, but who cares? It’s bullshit, right?”

     “I have an answer,” I reveal.

     “Does it contain a number?”

     “It does.”

     “Is it a possible duration of time?”

     “It is,” I say. I’m both weirded out and a little excited that I may have a match. And Cassie looks concerned. That’s the last we talk about the questions and answers.

We traipse back to the dance floor. Our moves begin as ironic imitations of the perfectly lovely guests dancing in earnest but slowly transform into unambiguous, joyous participation.

The reception is wrapping up when we get off the dance floor. I find Maggie to congratulate her one last time.

She pats me on the shoulder. “Looks like I’m not the only one getting lucky tonight! I knew you two would be a perfect match, but I figured you’d hate each out of principle if we set you up. So glad you hit it off.”

When Cassie and I enter her hotel room, she turns the lights off. We make out and quickly escalate beyond that.

     Smiling and satisfied, we turn the lights on. We decide at the same time to stop pretending that we’re better than our curiosities. I examine her question.

When will the world end?

     In 11 months, my answer says.

Cassie contorts her face in exaggerated disgust. “Is it just me, or are you the worst?”

     “Oh, I’m a total nothing. I have difficulty justifying the oxygen I take in,” I say. “And let’s not get started on you.”

     “Grating, overbearing. I’m awful to be around.”

     “And I don’t think I’ve ever had a stronger connection with someone,” I say.

     “Dammit,” she says. “Me too.”

     “That enough time for us to learn guitar?” I ask.

     “Probably not. But I wouldn’t mind being wrong.”