No Logical Explanation
by Lana Schwartz

“There is no logical explanation for why I’m like this,” you tell Mark in between bites of baby quiche. That you hate broccoli but you love it in your egg-based meals: Quiches, omelets, the more broccoli, the better. 

He smiles at you and laughs, a small laugh that punctuates the end of his smile like an exclamation point. 

“Not everything needs an explanation,” he said, before taking his fork and carving himself a piece.

“There is no logical explanation for why I’m like this,” you tell Tom after walking out of a midnight movie, his hand clasped in yours as you walk down the quiet city streets. You have spent 30 minutes explaining how you simply did not believe that if aliens came down Earth they would even be interested in mating in humans, and if they were, how would that work? You need more specifics before you were willing to commit to this reality. Tom puts his hand underneath your chin and tilts your face up towards his and kisses you. He says he doesn’t care why you were like this because he likes you.

“There is no logical explanation for why I’m like this,” you tell Dave over coffee at his favorite diner — now your favorite diner, too — after he asks if you want to meet his parents when they come into town next weekend from Kansas City and the answer is no, but you can’t bring yourself to say the words “no” so you say you’ll check but you’re pretty sure you already have a lot going on next weekend. Dave isn’t an idiot though, so he knows that while none of those words individually mean no, taken together that is exactly what they mean. Dave tries to meet your gaze but your gaze is directed towards your perfectly fried piece of bacon and you think, I’m never going to get to eat bacon from this diner again.

“There is no logical explanation for why I’m like this,” you tell Connor? a guy you met at the dive bar downstairs who came on strong and continued that way, as he lies in bed next to you. But he’s asleep, you realize. So you keep talking.

“I don’t have daddy issues, just so you know. I actually have a great relationship with my dad” You sigh, loudly, yet still Cory? doesn’t stir. So you keep talking. “I shouldn’t be like this. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“There is no logical explanation for why I’m like this,” you prepare yourself to tell Greg. For five whole years, it’s in the back of your throat, on the tip of your tongue. And yet, it never comes out. Because for once you don’t have to explain yourself to him, or rather, explain why you can’t explain yourself.

“There is no logical explanation for why I’m like this,” Greg tells you, setting his ring down on the table. And for the first time ever you think, “God, this sucks.”

Lana Schwartz is a writer who was born and raised in New York City, where she continues to live today. Her work has been published on The New Yorker, McSweeney’s, The Hairpin, The Toast, and elsewhere. Her first book, Build Your Own Romantic Comedy, was released by Ulysses Press in March 2020. For more on Lana – as well as instructions on how to pronounce her name – visit www.lanalikebanana.com or find her on Twitter @_lanabelle.

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