text: And several hours later, I can officially declare myself a founding member of the futilitarian's club.
  
  Imani left hours ago, right after Ze agreed, "I like your friend. She is very sweet."
  
  That compliment followed our easy-peasy plan number one ...fail. Which was to go online, find the user name of whoever put the tag down, and track them backward. This led us to nothing but a fake account, along with all the approval Imani needed for her to bail, leaving me here with our next plan. The evil, sadistic one where we get back to playing the game with me still no closer to leveling up than I have been for the last twenty-four hours.
  
  Which really isn't all that long. Just long enough to determine that eighteen is not my lucky number.
  
  During this same time, Ze spent an entire day doing who knows what and in our few hours has leveled up to twenty. Yeah. Feeling the burn.
  
  "You know, Sid." Ze's voice interrupts my useless glaring at the screen. "In China, as in Judaism, the number eighteen is very auspicious. It is, for example, very good luck to live in a house or apartment with that number. They say you will have great success and be very prosperous."
  
  And while talking, ze simultaneously continues to fly across the keyboard, beating back yet another virus attack. "But of course in tarot the number eighteen is associated with the moon. And the moon is weeping. And they say it is because the material is trying to destroy the spiritual."
  
  "So," Ze pauses zir game and looks over, "before your spirit is destroyed, I suggest we stay with the combined blessings of a Jewish life and a Chinese prosperous life and get you off this level."
  
  I am many things, but right now, proud is not one of them. Before zir offer is finished, I am offering up a Vulcan salute, rising, and then bowing with a flourish over my now vacant seat.
  
  "It is all yours."
  
  I go and stand kind of over Ze's shoulder, but a little ways back, trying hard to pay attention while discreetly unkinking my neck and lower back. And as I straighten back up, I get lost watching Ze's hands fly across the keyboard, seamlessly moving my avatar across the screen.
  
  And it's a pretty intense and really awesome show. Watching Ze's fingers fly is like watching, I don't know, maybe a ballet?
  
  No, that's not right. It's more like when you see a street group dance-off where first one guy goes and then the next guy— only in Ze's case, one guy is like the left hand and the next guy is like the right hand.
  
  And they're amazing. They fly and then they dip and then they ...
  
  ...oh no. No. No. Hands? Really? No. No. No. I close my eyes, squeeze my thighs, and cringe to myself. I did not just think that. That would not be the thought I am meaning to have.
  
  Which is a problem, because it's too late. I have now had it.
  
  And I'm not talking about some goofy movie "dance of the sensuous fingers" thing turning me on. No. It's more like a rush. Pouncing. You know, when a cat stares down its target and waits and then ...Bam! It's all energy. And it's not a singular bam. It's rapid-fire. And with each Ze keyboard pounce, I feel it in regions I would rather not discuss.
  
  I step back, trying to keep the sound of my breathing to myself. Inhale. Exhale. I can do this. Focus.
  
  And I do. Staring at zir hands, I focus on the left finger, tattooed open-ended with half the Millau Viaduct Bridge. Right after Imani left and we took a break, I asked Ze about the tat.
  
  "Ah." Ze held up zir left hand, turning it so I could see the tattooed side. "Well, the Chinese believe that each finger is a representation of the past, the present, and the future generations of you and your family. The thumb represents your parents, the index finger represents your siblings, the middle finger represents you, the ring finger represents your partner, and the pinky represents your children."
  
  As Ze spoke, ze waggled each finger separately. When ze was finished, ze looked over to me, held up zir right hand and continued, "Okay. So now you do this with me. Start by placing your palms together as if you were praying."
  
  Fervently hoping I have clean hands and nails, I do as ze asks, bringing them together in front of me. Having seen way too many episodes of TV shows with Chinese secondary characters, I nearly embarrass myself beyond repair by automatically assuming we are going to bow to each other like some kind of "Weedhopper and Master Po." Fortunately, I catch myself with just the smallest, telltale half-step hop.
  
  If Ze notices, ze is kind enough to not react.
  
  "Okay, so with your fingertips still touching, take your middle fingers and while they are touching, bend them down, until second knuckle of each middle finger is touching the other and their tips are pointing down into your palm. Now it's key to remember, the middle fingers represent you.
  
  "So now, you're just going to let your pinkies move back. Keep everything else touching, but let the pinkies untouch each other. If you remember, the pinkies represent your children. And they can "untouch" because children eventually leave home and go build families of their own.Which is more or less the same philosophy behind your thumbs. The thumbs represent your parents, so of course they can separate easily, because your parents are not destined to live with you forever."
  
  At that ze pauses and smiles at me. "At least for my sake, I hope not.
  
  "As for your index fingers, again, no resistance. The index fingers are your siblings, and they, too, will go on to live life on their own.
  
  "This brings us to the ring finger. So, with your middle fingers still in position, try to separate your ring finger."
  
  I attempt to do as instructed.
  
  Ze smiles. "You see, you cannot. No matter how hard you try, they will not come apart. In Chinese folklore, this explanation is because the union between you and your partner is unbreakable, and a wedding ring worn on the ring finger represents a marriage that is meant to last forever.
  
  "So for me, if I ever find my 'unbreakable' it will be time for my bridge to span across us both. Until then, it is incomplete."
  
  And just as I'm thinking, or maybe not even thinking, just kind of melting, Ze continues, "or it might be because it seemed cool at the time."
  
  And it takes a second for her words to register. And as they do, I feel my bubble burst. Apparently so could Ze, who looks at me and laughs. "Uh oh. Another born romantic I have now horrified."
  
  And my friends, in case you find it useful to know, the folklore is true. It is an ancient Chinese belief.
  
  Anatomically however, I can actually tell you how this phenomenon works. We have a common muscle called extensor digitorum that has little connectors between the tendons that go to the backs of each finger that allow them to extend all the way. The thumb is separate, but in addition to this muscle, the pinky has a second muscle called extensor digiti minimi and the pointer has a second muscle called extensor indicis. When you bend the middle fingers, you fix the tendons of the extensor digitorum, and without a second muscle to assist it your ring finger is stuck.
  
  As is my brain.
  
  Which is how I got here. Dazed, confused, aroused. And way too tired to have any rational thoughts left.
  
  Which is okay, because apparently I didn't need any, because that way, they didn't keep me awake.
  
  And I know this because I am woken up by the sound of tap, tap, tap, which I slowly realize is someone knocking on a window, and they are calling out for Ze, which jerks me wide awake. Ze. Heart palpitations begin. Ze. Quick glance around, apparently still in the closet, gaming. Wow.
  
  It seems I fell asleep on the couch outside of the closet, somewhere in the middle of the night. The good news is I had the forethought to text the parental unit that Imani and I were at Fenny's, so I wouldn't be killed. (Hey, explaining it was just me and Fenny, who is now Ze, is a way bigger story than a text would have handled.) The bad news is that Ze is now out of the closet and opening the door to one of the most beautiful, hippest women I've ever seen outside of the movies, and I am stumbling upward, barefoot, wearing unquestionably slept-in clothes, having bed-head hair sticking out sideways, and, oh yeah, a wee bit of crusty drool stuck on the side of my mouth.
  
  Lovely.
  
  She tilts her impossibly hip, multi-braided head and looks me up and down with these huge eyes. It occurs to me she is going for the Chinese hip-hop artist, Vava, look, and she's nailing it, but in a really cold, calculated way. She turns from me to Ze, her eyebrow raised in question.
  
  I should mention, thankfully, that Ze looks exactly like I left zir last night. Apparently ze never went to bed.
  
  "Oh hey." Ze turns to make introductions. "Babe, this is Sid. She's a friend of Imani's, you know, who I went to school with back in the day. Anyway, they have a problem I'm trying to help them with.
  
  "Sid, this is my girlfriend, Xing."
  
  The good news is the eyebrow lowers as I give my little grin and wave. The bad news is I know instinctively she is the wrong person and I hate her. I am sensing we both know this is already mutual ...
  
  ...but irrelevant. I am sized up and quickly dismissed as Xing turns back to Ze, and with a pout says, "Babe, aren't we going this morning?"
  
  Ze looks at her and then blinks. "Ah shit.
  
  "Okay. Give me two minutes to get changed, and we go." And as Ze crosses to the other closet, ze calls back, "Hey Sid, I'm sorry. We have to get over to Brooklyn for a parkour competition."
  
  And I'm thinking hard, plowing deep in the recesses ...Parkour? Oh yeah, parkour is that thing where people run up the sides of buildings and leapfrog fences and, I dunno, jump from one city rooftop across to another, apparently for fun. Yep. Check. That's the one. That's parkour. And I'm thinking, really, why?
  
  A thought that must have been really easy to read, because I look up to see cutesy head-tilt smirking at me. "Ze's going to world's this year, you know." It's less sharing than sneering. Or maybe gloating.
  
  Either way, before I can think to answer, Ze snorts as ze jumps back out of the closet, now wearing sweats and a black muscle tee, which fit ridiculously well. "Love you, babe, but not too sure about that one." Ze's headshake is affectionate as ze gives a playful laugh, and then turns back to me, conspiratorially. "I think the only way I ever go to world's is as a fan, but I have fun."
  
  "Look, Sid." Ze's voice drops, signals new topic. "I'm really sorry I completely forgot about this. I didn't find our phantom friend last night, but I promise I will continue the search later. But now, if you'd like, you are welcome to come with us."
  
  The bad news here is twofold: 1) parkour and 2) because Xing is behind Ze, only I can see the death glare pointing directly at me.
  
  "Me? Thank you. Uhm, no can do." And now I am fumbling every which way, verbally, physically. "You know, late night last night. I gotta get home, catch up before school."
  
  Oh yes, my peeps. You know it. Suave Sid strikes again.
  
  I stumble out, hit the sidewalk, and just to rub it all in, have an old treppenwitz moment. You know, the one where your witty retort is just one moment too late. Parkour? Me? Love to, but I'm sorry, I've already committed to running with the bulls.
  
  Big sigh. Another day-late, dollar-short moment.