The Ex Talk

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You could start by telling me what the hell a popped P is.”

That, I can do. It takes me back to the early weeks of my internship, the one-on-one coaching I got from Paloma. Back then, I thought it was ridiculous—I’d never be on the radio anyway. Still, I learned to avoid P-pops and the less common B-pops and hissing S’s, just in case.

“It’s called a plosive,” I say, trying not to wonder if his sea salt cologne will linger in the booth after we leave. “You’re sending a blast of air from your mouth right into the mic when you make that p sound.” I hold my hand in front of my mouth, indicating that he should do the same. “Pacific Public Radio. Can you feel the difference against your hand when you say a p word versus an r word? There’s more air with the p’s, right?”

“Pacific Public Radio. Pacific Public Radio.” Dominic tries this a few times and nods. It’s both funny and validating, watching this six-three giant taking direction from me.

“And the thing you feel is going to sound distorted on the recording,” I say. “Aside from having better recording technology, which we’re not going to be able to afford anytime soon, you can practice better breath control. It takes some time, and you’ll probably be thinking about it a lot at the beginning, but it’ll get easier.”

He repeats the phrase into his hand several more times, sounding smoother. When he finally drops his arm, his sweater sleeve brushes my shoulder. I wonder if it’s wool or cotton, soft or rough. Maybe I don’t hate the way he dresses at all.

“Thank you,” he says. “That’s actually really helpful.”

We try the promo again.

I’m Shay Goldstein—

And I’m Dominic Yun. This Thursday at three o’clock on Pacific Public Radio, tune in to our new show, The Ex Talk. It’s all about dating, breaking up, and making up from two people who managed to stay friends after their own relationship ended.

We can’t wait to share our story and hear yours.

“Better,” I say. But I can’t get the sound of my own voice out of my head. With the show premiering so soon, it’s the last place I want to linger. “Culture Clash was good this week.”

“Don’t tell me! I haven’t listened yet.”

“Okaaaay, but there’s this one part where—”

He makes a show of clutching at his ears. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re terrible?”

“Most people.” I give him an angelic smile. “There’s also this newish Buffy podcast I’ve been meaning to check out.”

“Five by Five? It’s great. First episode was a little shaky, but they found their footing by the third.”

“So you don’t only listen to the news,” I say with a lift of my eyebrows.

“You mean, I’m a complex and layered human being?”

“Jury’s still out.”

His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “Now that’s a good podcast.”

I snort. He doesn’t need to know that I subscribed to one of his Supreme Court podcasts, Justice Makes Perfect. I haven’t listened to any of the episodes yet, but I might. It’s only fair—he listened to mine. I am a firm believer in reciprocation.

A few more run-throughs of the promo. If possible, my voice sounds more grating each time. I sigh, pushing the microphone out of the way and dropping into one of the two sound booth chairs. It’s always better to record standing up—less pressure on your diaphragm.

“Are you sure my voice sounds okay?”

“For the nine hundredth time, yes.”

“You’ve clearly never had anyone laugh in your face about it.”

“No, but I’ve gotten anonymous emails telling me to go back to China,” he says. “Which is especially hilarious, given I’m not Chinese.”

“Oh.” Shit. That is not even on the same planet as my issues. “Wow. That is really fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” He runs a hand through his hair, abandoning his lean to take the chair next to mine. “I want to say I’ve gotten used to it because it’s happened often enough, but you really don’t. You let it fuel you. You do even better because you know there are people out there who are waiting for you to fail.”

At that, he lets his brown oxford tap the leg of my chair in a way that’s maybe meant to be comforting.