Page 5 of The Cyrano Situation

Chapter Four - Spaces Between Words

Cyril

T hat night, I sat at my kitchen table with a glass of burgundy, staring at my laptop screen. Hart had forwarded Jules' latest message, as promised.

"I've been thinking about what you said regarding the spaces between words speaking louder than the words themselves.

It reminds me of something John Cage once said about music—that the notes are not as important as the silence between them.

Do you find that applies to human interaction as well?

That what remains unsaid often carries more weight than what is explicitly expressed? "

I took a sip of wine, considering. It was a thoughtful question, one that resonated with me in unexpected ways. After a moment's hesitation, I began to type my response:

"Absolutely. In fact, I'd argue that true understanding between people often exists in that unspoken space…

the shared recognition of something that doesn't require articulation.

It's why I've always preferred written communication to verbal; the deliberate choice of what to include and what to omit creates a richer tapestry of meaning. "

I paused, then added:

"As for Cage, his '4'33"' takes that concept to its logical extreme—a composition of pure silence that forces the audience to confront the impossibility of true silence.

There's always something in the spaces: ambient noise, breath, the rustle of movement.

Perhaps the same is true of human connection.

Even in silence, something is being communicated. "

I read it over twice, then forwarded it to Hart with a brief note: "You may send this verbatim."

His response came almost immediately: "This is perfect! It sounds super intellectual but personal. Jules is going to love it."

I closed my laptop and finished my wine, trying to ignore the small flutter of anticipation in my chest. This was still a terrible idea, an ethical gray area at best and outright deception at worst.

But as I went through my evening routine—washing my glass, brushing my teeth for exactly two minutes, setting out tomorrow's clothes—I found myself wondering how Jules would respond. Would he appreciate the Cage reference? Would he have a counterargument about written versus verbal communication?

For the first time in longer than I cared to admit, I was genuinely curious about another person's thoughts.

When I got to my bed from the bathroomn that night, I realized I'd forgotten to count my steps.

As I slipped under the covers, and set my alarm for 6:15, I tried to ignore the reason for the small smile on my lips.

It definitely wasn't about the new variable in the equation: Jules28, literature professor, appreciator of Japanese mysteries and the spaces between words.

Tomorrow would be another carefully structured day: shower, breakfast, eleven blocks to the office. Red pen on manuscripts, turkey sandwich for lunch, literary fiction on my e-reader.

Jules28 might be a disruption to my routine, yes. But perhaps, just this once, a welcome one.

I stared at my phone as though it had spontaneously transformed into a venomous reptile. The text message—a mere seven words, objectively innocuous—glowed on the screen with what felt like radioactive menace:

Hi, how's your day going? :)

Twenty-three characters including spaces. One smiley face emoticon. And not even a proper emoji, just the colon-parenthesis variety that people had been using since the dial-up days. Nothing remarkable whatsoever.

And yet my heart hammered against my ribcage as if I'd just completed a triathlon.

"It's been seventeen minutes," I muttered, glancing at the timestamp. "Is seventeen minutes too long to wait before responding? Too short? Is there an optimal response time that communicates interest without desperation?"

I was sitting in my apartment, a modest one-bedroom in Park Slope that I'd managed to secure only because the previous tenant had been my second cousin twice removed, and the landlord had a soft spot for family continuity.

The rent was still criminal, but marginally less so than market rate.

My laptop was open to a manuscript I was supposed to be editing.

It was a promising thriller about art forgery that, unfortunately, kept confusing Monet with Manet, but Jules's message had derailed any hope of productivity.

"This is absurd," I informed my empty living room. "I have two master's degrees. I can diagram sentences in five languages. I've read Proust in the original French. I should be able to respond to a simple greeting without experiencing cardiac distress."

I picked up my phone, put it down, picked it up again. The screen had gone dark, so I tapped it to illuminate Jules's message once more.

That smiley face. That damnable, inscrutable smiley face.

I opened my laptop browser and typed "meaning of smiley face in text messages" into the search bar. Fourteen milliseconds later, I was scrolling through a listicle titled "What Those Emojis REALLY Mean: The Hidden Language of Digital Flirtation."

According to the article (published on a site called LoveBytes.com, which immediately made me question its scholarly rigor), the basic smiley face was "friendly but noncommittal." But when followed by no additional emoji, it could indicate "cautious interest" or "polite disengagement."

"Fantastic," I muttered. "Schrodinger's emoticon."

My phone vibrated. I nearly launched it across the room in surprise before realizing it was just Hart calling.

"Have you responded yet?" Hart asked without preamble.

"Hello to you, too," I said. "And no, I have not responded, because I'm busy conducting a comprehensive analysis of the sociolinguistic implications of the colon-parenthesis smiley face."

"Oh my god." Hart's laugh was warm even through the phone's tinny speaker. "You're overthinking a smiley face? That's adorable."

"I'm not overthinking," I protested. "I'm thinking the appropriate amount for someone whose prospective romantic future might hinge on proper emoji interpretation."

"Okay, Professor Overthinker. What have you learned in your exhaustive research?"

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. "According to a 2018 study in the Journal of Computer-Mediated Communication, emoticon usage increases perceived warmth by approximately 43 percent but can decrease perceptions of competence by 11 percent."

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Please tell me you made those numbers up," Hart said finally.

"I did not. The study had a sample size of 724 participants across three—"

"Cyril. My man. My dude. My favorite erudite overthinking machine." Hart's voice was patient but firm. "Jules asked how your day is going. With a smiley face. That means he's being friendly and wants to know how your day is going."

"But—"

"No buts. This is exactly why you asked for my help, remember? Because I don't turn simple text messages into doctoral dissertations."

I slumped back against my couch. "Fine. What do I say?"

"Something honest but light. How was your day, actually?"

I considered. "I spent the morning correcting an author who kept writing 'for all intensive purposes' and the afternoon questioning my entire approach to interpersonal communication."

"Perfect!" Hart said with such enthusiasm that I pulled the phone away from my ear. "Well, we'll edit slightly. Type this: 'Not bad! Spent the morning saving authors from their own malapropisms. How about yours?'"

I obediently typed the message, then hesitated. "Should I include an emoji?"

"If you want. Something simple."

"According to a cross-cultural study of digital communication patterns, men use emojis 45 percent less frequently than women, but in romantic contexts, that gap narrows to—"

"Oh my GOD," Hart groaned. "I'm going to start charging you a dollar for every statistic you quote. Just use a simple smiley face like he did."

"The reciprocation principle in communication suggests mirroring the other person's style, so that's actually sound advice," I conceded, adding the smiley face.

"I'm hanging up now, but send me a screenshot after you send it."

My finger hovered over the send button after Hart disconnected. I read the message three times, searching for any possible misinterpretation or unintended innuendo. Finding none, I took a deep breath and pressed send.

Not bad! Spent the morning saving authors from their own malapropisms. How about yours? :)

There. Done. Message sent at 6:47 PM on a Tuesday evening.

According to the research I had done (but wisely not shared with Hart), the average response time for text messages was approximately 90 minutes, but evening messages often took longer due to dinner preparations and other evening activities.

Which meant I had at least an hour, probably two, to return to my manuscript and make some progress before—

My phone vibrated.

6:48 PM. Jules had responded in less than sixty seconds.

"No," I whispered to my phone. "That's not how this works. You're supposed to give me time to psychologically prepare for the next round."

The notification taunted me from my lock screen. With the resignation of a man approaching his own execution, I swiped to open the message.

Haha, love it! I spent MY day convincing undergrads that Hemingway wasn't just "some old dude who liked fishing." Only partially successful. What kind of books do you edit?

I stared at the message. Three sentences. An actual question requiring a substantive response. And was that... humor? Jules was being funny. Intentionally amusing. Which meant I was now expected to be amusing in return.

I hit Hart's number so fast my finger hurt.

"Emergency," I said when Hart answered. "Jules responded in 47 seconds and he's being witty and asking about my job and I don't know how to be professionally descriptive while maintaining the light conversational tone and—"