Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Matching ‘academia sux’ tattoos.”

            “A golden toilet.”

            “A golden bidet.”

            We gasp. Then laugh. Then I sober up. “I just want to be paid to contemplate cosmological models of the observable universe, you know?”

            “I know.” Her smile softens. “What does Dr. L. say about your chances?”

            Laurendeau—or Dr. L., as I’d never dare to call him to his face—was my Ph.D. advisor and is the person to whom I owe every single bit of my academic success. He’s just as involved in my career as he was before I graduated, and I’m constantly thankful for it. “Optimistic.”

            “There you go. How many days is the interview going to be?”

            “Three.”

            “You start today?”

            “Yup. Informal interview dinner tonight.” I think about the chair wanting to meet me early. Is it promising? Inauspicious? Weird? No clue. “Teaching demonstration tomorrow. Research talk and a final reception the day after. Various meetings with faculty members scattered throughout.”

            “Did you prep?”

            “Is ‘prep’ rocking myself? Contemplating my own mortality? Sacrificing a live creature to the gods of academia?” I glance at Hedgie, who looks dutifully cowed.

            “Have you stalked the search committee online?”

            “I haven’t been given their names or a detailed itinerary yet. It’s just as well—I need to answer emails. And buy pantyhose. And call my mom.”

            “No, no, no.” Cece lifts her hand. “Do not call your mom. She’ll just dump all her problems on you. You need to focus, not listen to her bitch about how your brothers are punching each other over the last hot dog.”

            “Woman—they’re considering fratricide over a woman.” The Hannaways: prime Jerry Springer material.

            “Doesn’t matter. Promise me that if your mom calls, you’ll tell her about the interview. And that your childhood was mediocre, at best.”

            I mull it over. “How about I promise to avoid her for a few days?”

            She squints. “Fine. So you’re going out for the pantyhose?”

            “Yup.”

            “Can you stop by the store to get me cereal?”

            I don’t really have time for that. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or makes you resent your pathological inability to set boundaries, one of the two. “Sure. What kind—”

            “No!” She slaps her hand on the table. “Elsie, you have to learn to say no.”

            I massage my temple. “Will you please stop testing me?”

            “I’ll stop when you stop putting others’ needs in front of yours.” She sets down her—my—empty mug and picks up Hedgie. “Gotta pee. You still want to borrow my red dress for tonight?”

            I frown. “I never asked to borrow your—”

            “And I’ll also do your makeup, if you insist.”

            “I really don’t need—”

            “Fine, you win—I’ll pluck your eyebrows, too.” Cece winks. Hedgie glares, parrot-perched on her shoulder. The bathroom door closes after them.

            The clock on the wall says six forty-five. I sigh and allow myself a small indulgence: I double-click on the Word doc on the upper left corner of my screen. I scroll to the bottom of the half-written manuscript, then back to the top. The title, A Unified Theory of Two-Dimensional Liquid Crystal, waves wistfully at me. For a handful of seconds I let my imagination run to a near future, one in which I’m able to set aside time to complete it. Maybe even submit it.

            I sigh deeply as I close it. Then I self-consciously trace my eyebrows and go back to answering emails.



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