My thumb typed yes before I had thought

The photocopier whined, then pushed out a blank sheet with one edge crumpled as if someone had squeezed it. I flipped the lid, pulled the jammed page free, and found my fingertips black with toner. My phone buzzed on the glass. Chị Quyên, who used to work with me: "A few of us old coworkers are getting together tomorrow night. Come by, okay? It's been so long."

I got as far as "come by" before my thumb finished typing "yes, of course, chị." I hadn't sent it.

Not sent yet.

The shop was quiet. The student waiting on his thesis outline stood outside the door with his head bent over his own phone. I had about half a minute, and in that half minute two voices started arguing. I call them Say-Yes and Hang-On, because those are the two I hear loudest.

Say-Yes: Send it. Chị Quyên wrote to me personally, how can I say no? It's kind of her to remember me at all.

Hang-On: You just read it. Can the shop close before eight tomorrow? Will Tín agree to cover? You also have to pick up the little one from drawing class at half past seven. You don't know any of that yet.

Someone tapped on the glass. The student leaned in: "Chị, can I get two more copies?" "Sure," I said, and my hand had already hit the button before my mouth finished the word. The machine blinked red. It had just jammed, it might not even run, and I had just promised.

Say-Yes: See? No harm done. Ask Tín later. Say yes now and stop thinking about it.

Hang-On: Stop thinking now and you'll think later, while you're sitting in the middle of some restaurant. Remember last time? You said yes, then that afternoon you texted that your daughter was running a fever. She wasn't.

Say-Yes: That was different. I really was tired that day.

Hang-On: Then say you're tired. Why did you borrow the kid?

Say-Yes went quiet for a moment. In the shop, "sure" has a price. When a customer asks for a rush job and I say "sure," I add five thousand dong, and before I say it I always glance at the paper tray to see how many orders are queued up. A yes outside the shop costs nothing extra, so it comes out much faster, so fast I never get to glance at my own tray. I've also noticed that the word tends to slip out exactly when both my hands are busy: clearing a jam, making change, holding the phone in the other one. On days when my hands are free, I answer slowly.

The last time I went to one of these evenings, I sat at the far end of the table, ate two bites, and listened to people mention names I couldn't put faces to. At nine I left and said the shop had to open early. The shop did open early. That wasn't the reason.

Say-Yes: I'm afraid chị Quyên will think I'm snubbing her. I left that company four years ago, and if I don't show up this time, then... Also, part of me does want to go. Chị Quyên tells stories so well, you can't sit next to her without laughing. But what kind of wanting that is, I'm not sure.

Hang-On: Then what?

Say-Yes: Then that's it. She won't write again. I don't actually know that's true, it just feels like it.

Hang-On: I'm afraid of the same thing. We're scared of one thing, you and I. The only difference is that you type the yes and I stand in front of the send button.

Both of them went silent. Outside, the student looked up into the shop and then down again. The machine was still warm, and the room smelled of warm paper and toner.

I don't know whether I want to see those people. Honestly. There's no answer sitting ready in my head, and sitting here asking until evening might not produce one. All I know is something smaller: I don't have enough information to say anything yet, and my thumb already said it for me.

I once read a piece on saying no without apologizing three times, nodded along, and went right back to saying "sure" the next day. As for a group of old acquaintances thinning out with nobody angry at anybody, there is a piece about an old class group chat here. Chị Quyên and I are probably that kind of thinning, not the kind with a story behind it.

I deleted "yes, of course, chị" and typed again: "Thank you for inviting me, chị. Let me check the shop hours and I'll text you before noon tomorrow." Then I hit send. She hasn't answered. Whether I'll go tomorrow, I don't know yet either.

I dropped the crumpled page into the spoiled-paper bin and printed the next job for the student. The first sheet came out a little yellow at the edge, because the toner hadn't warmed up evenly. The second one was clear.

This article was created with AI assistance.