Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Yeah.” She clears her throat. “Dr. Hannaway, I wanted to say . . . you’re such an inspiration. When you won that Forbes award—well, hardly any physicist ever does, not to mention women. Also, I was in your teaching demonstration today. You were so poised and assertive. Cole’s a huge prick, and . . .” She flushes. “Anyway, it was inspiring.”

            “I—” I flush, too. “I don’t know what to—” She scurries away before I can stammer the rest of the sentence.

            Was she making fun of me? Does someone really find me inspiring? Even though I spend my life pretzeling my personality to avoid being hated? Even though I am the fraudiest of impostors?

            It doesn’t matter. I sigh and knock on the worst door in all of Boston. “Come,” a deep voice says, and I resignedly let myself in.

            I don’t look around Jack’s office. I refuse to care if it’s well lit, or wallpapered in brocade, or a pigsty—though, tragically, I do notice that it smells nice. Soap and books and wood and coffee and Jack, the scent of him but in intense, deconstructed notes. Because apparently I know his scent by now, which makes me want to tear my olfactory glands out of my nostrils. Bah.

            There’s a free chair in front of the desk. I make a beeline for it as he keeps typing on his computer.

            And typing.

            And typing.

            And—wait for it—typing.

            Ten seconds go by. Thirty. Forty-five. He has yet to acknowledge me, and the same antagonistic tension from last night bubbles inside me, filling the office. I know exactly what he’s doing—power plays—and while I cannot stop him, I refuse to let him upset me.

            Okay, I refuse to let him know that he upsets me.

            I don’t look around. I don’t tap my foot. I don’t show impatience or annoyance at his rudeness. Instead I take the iTwat out of my purse and start doing what he does: minding my own damn business.


Dr. Hannaway,


It’s Alan, from Quantum Mechanics. I wanted to let you know: I don’t really like it. Quantum Mechanics, that is. It’s kind of boring. But I don’t blame you, it’s not your fault. Like, you didn’t come up with subatomic particles. (If you did, I apologize). But don’t shoot the messenger, right? LOL. I was wondering, could you make your classes more fun? Maybe we could watch a few Quantum Mechanics movies? Just some advice.


Best,

                Alan from Quantum Mechanics





Mrs. Hannaway,


What do you mean, federal law prohibits you from discussing my son’s grades with me? I pay for his tuition. I demand to know whether he’s doing well. This is unacceptable.


Karen





Hi Ms. Elsie,


If I skip class to bring my dog to the groomer, does it count as an excused absence?


Halle


PS: I wouldn’t ask, but he really needs a haircut.



            I roll my eyes, and that’s when I notice: Jack’s no longer typing. Instead he’s leaning back in his chair, those arms that probably have their own Wikipedia entry (top read in all languages, all day, every day) crossed over his chest. His tattoo remains an obscure mystery, and he stares at me silently, as cloudy and impenetrable as usual. How fitting.

            I glance at the clock on the wall and inadvertently take in about half of the office, which is large and sunny and tastefully furnished. There’s a cactus by the window. Hmph. I’ve been here for three minutes.

            “Are you bored?” he asks, with his stupid, beautiful voice.

            “No.” I smile, murderously pleasant. “You?”

            He doesn’t answer. “I believe we’re meant to use this time to interview.”

            “You seemed busy. Didn’t want to interfere.”

            “I was replying to an urgent email.” I doubt it. I think he was writing the next great American novel. Making a grocery list. Messing with me. “We’re supposed to get to know each other better, Elsie.” My name. Again. From his lips. That tone, timbre, inflection. “How am I to make a decision on your hiring otherwise?”

            Everyone knows exactly where you stand when it comes to my hiring. I almost say it, but I don’t want a repeat of last night in the bathroom. I don’t want to lose control. I can be calm, even in the face of Jack’s portentous dickishness. “What would you like to talk about?”