Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            It’s my cue to unsheathe my warmest smile. “Does that answer your question, Cole?”

            It does. Cole’s ravenous ego has been sufficiently fed with scraps of my dignity. Oh, the things I do for healthcare and pension funds matching. “Yes, Elsie. Thank you for addressing my concerns.”

            Dickbag. “Excellent.” I push away from the table and walk back to the podium. “I’m so excited to tell you about Wigner crystallization. Feel free to interrupt again at any point, because what you take out of the lecture, that’s what matters.” A beat. Then I deliver my final blow. “Unless you multiply it by the speed of light. In which case it energies.”

            Aaand, scene.

            I lift my eyes just as Volkov starts wheezing. Beside him, Monica gives me a delighted look: her gladiator, making her proud. I allow the students a few seconds to groan at my cheesy, dorky pun that they secretly love because—who doesn’t? “Thank you, I’ll be here all week.” Groans turn into chuckles.

            And that’s when I let myself look at Jack. My chin lifts, just a millimeter. I told you you’d regret taking me on, Dr. Smith-Turner.

            Jack stares back, expressionless. Not smiling. Not frowning. Not gritting his teeth. He just stares, in what I really hope is a reassessment of my threat to his physics domination plan. To his precious George. It’s fleeting, and I’m probably imagining it, but I could almost swear that I spot a twinkle in the blue slice of his eye.

            I shelve it as a win and get started with my talk.



* * *



            • • •

            After the teaching demonstration I could use a nap, but my day is booked full. I have a meeting with the dean of the School of Science, a pleasant guy who sips coffee from a tentacle mug that has me pondering his porn preferences. Then there’s an informal lunch with two physics profs—clearly a couple having a lovers’ spat, which results in me staring at my salad while they bicker over someone named Raul. Afterward I get a five-minute bathroom break (spent figuring out whether my insulin pod is acting up or I’m just a dumpster fire of paranoia) followed by one-on-one interviews.

            One-on-ones are, of course, what I’m best at. It’s simple math: being the Elsie one person wants is much easier than negotiating between the Elsies twelve different people demand. These interviews are ostensibly for me to ask questions about the department that will help me decide whether to accept an offer, but let’s not forget that (1) my current job situation is a bukkake of shit, and (2) carrying out interviews qualifies as academic service, and academics hate service with the intensity of a thousand quasars.

            Luckily, I’m a pro at making people feel like time spent with me is not wasted. Dr. Ikagawa uses inflatable yoga balls instead of chairs—not ideal in a pencil skirt, but conducive to bonding conversation over our core and upper-body routines. Dr. Voight has been on hold with his dental insurance for hours, and when I let him spend our fifteen minutes fighting them on the phone, he looks like he could kiss me. I trap a mosquito that’s been infesting Alvarez’s office and make a lifelong friend. I workshop Dr. Albritton’s syllabus; laugh with Dr. Deol about his son’s third-grade teacher, who still thinks Pluto is a planet; nod as Dr. Sader sips on a Capri Sun while rambling about dark matter being not a clump but a smoothly distributed wavy superfluid.

            It’s going well, I tell myself as a gangly grad student tasked with escorting me around takes me to my seventh interview of the day. I am projecting affability. Collegiality. Desirabili—

            “Here it is,” she says in front of a black door.

            I stare at the name plaque for a second. Briefly consider defacing it. Resist my base impulses and tell her, “I think there might be a mistake. My itinerary says that my next meeting is with Dr. Pereira.”

            Was I looking forward to it after what I overheard last night? No. But since I cannot report him or his buddy to HR without admitting that I broke into a restroom, I was fully ready to make him uncomfortable with passive-aggressive questions about whether he’d be willing to take over my classes if I were to start a family.

            It’s not like I’m ever getting his vote, anyway.

            “There was a change to Dr. Pereira’s slots. Jack—I mean, Dr. Smith-Turner—is going to be your last interview.”

            Maybe I was a baby-seal clubber in a past life. Or a Wall Street CEO. It would explain my luck. “Are you sure?”