Free Eight Minutes by Lori Reisenbichler Page B

body. Which makes me think about big old John Robberson cramming himself into Toby’s little chubby body. I cringe.
    “What’s wrong, sweetie?” It’s Ian, who offers a plate of fajitas and puts his hand on my elbow.
    “No, no, I’m fine. I think I need to eat.” I steady myself. “Thank you.” I feel like one of those people who can’t recognize faces because they only see one facial feature at a time. Eyes. Nose. I see Ian’s big goofy smile and I’m filled with fondness. He turns his head and I lose his smile. My focus is on the space where his chin should be. His skin hangs in a straight vertical line from his bottom lip to the top of his collar. Poor Ian.
    I love the guy but don’t find him even remotely attractive. His appeal is on the inside. He’s so nice, so civilized. He’s like the opposite of a Neanderthal.
    Which makes me think how disappointed some floating Neanderthal soul would be to leave behind his muscle tone and wake up in Ian’s supple skin. That would be the worst of both, wouldn’t it? I can’t help a little giggle.
    “What’s so funny?”
    “Do you ever wonder about who we are if we’re not our bodies?”
    Ian looks at my empty glass and smiles. “Oh, yeah, I’m in. Whatcha thinking about, girl? This should be good.”
    “I’m serious. Do you ever think about reincarnation?”
    “Sure, sometimes. Do you?”
    I look around for Eric, but he’s heading back to the patio, well out of earshot. I’m relieved to be able to just relax and talk about whatever I want. Ian settles in next to me on the sofa and we start with the caveman question, which evolves into a quasi rant. He hands me a sloppy nacho and another Mexican martini. Two sips in, all I can see is the lime pulp in my glass. My visual field is noticeably shorter, like I’m in permanent zoom mode on the camera. When I turn my head, it takes a second before the sound lines up with the picture. I try to focus.
    He keeps prodding me for details, so even though I wasn’t planning to, I end up telling him about finding the real John Robberson.
    “So tell, me. What do you really make of it? Is Toby a reincarnated fighter pilot?”
    “I don’t know,” I say, trying to have the conversation only with Ian and not everyone who’s sitting on the back of the sofa. “I think if he really were the reincarnation of John Robberson, he’d speak differently of him. He’d recount memories, right? But it’s a mash-up. Toby talks about him like he’s a separate entity, but he’s replicating pilot memories when he plays. He knows things he can’t possibly know. See what I mean? That’s when it flips for me. Acting it out is a game. Memories are evidence.”
    Eric approaches, beer in hand. “Did someone say pilot?” My neck and cheeks flush. I don’t know how much he overheard.
    “Not just pilot. Fighter pilot, dude,” says Ian.
    “Don’t encourage him.” I wave at Mamie. “Come over and tell me what you’re working on these days. Don’t you have a show coming up?”
    I turn my back to Eric and Ian but can’t follow what Mamie says. All I can hear is the swagger in Eric’s voice.
    He leans his head back, sticks out his chest, and says, “You know, back in the day, when it was just me in that single-seater Thud, carpet bombing the Dragon’s Jaw, I pulled a high-G barrel roll to get away from the little shit behind me about to gun my ass down.”
    What?
    Ian smiles. “Dragon’s Jaw?”
    “You know you’re in trouble when you pickle the bombs off, pull back on the stick, and instead of a standard pullout, you get snapped into a hard right roll.”
    Ian gestures to him and nudges me. “Check out the wannabe.”
    “Do you think he practiced in the mirror?” I force a laugh, determined not to allow him the satisfaction of seeing he’s getting to me.
    Eric winks at Mamie. “Yeah, I remember when I felt the resistance on that right side, I realized that damn bomb was still in the hole.”
    “What are you talking