Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            “Conference rooms are that way.” Jack points to the right. His forearm is corded with muscle. What workout even targets those? “About sixty percent of the department focuses mostly on theory. More, if you include hybrid faculty like Volkov.” He gives me a sideways glance. “Nice job with the puns, by the way. Did you spend hours googling dad jokes?”

            Only about twenty minutes. I’m a skimmer. “Tell me, do you feel safe here?”

            “Safe?”

            “If over sixty percent of faculty are theorists, there must have been instances of . . . slashed tires? Defaced mailbox? Giant dumps on your desk? Unless you sent every theorist an apology Fudgie the Whale on your first day.”

            Is that an eye crinkle again? “I’m not the most popular guy on faculty. And I have yet to be invited to the department’s weekly happy hour. But most people are civil. And again, I have nothing against theorists.”

            “Sure. Some of your best friends are theorists.”

            He holds my eyes as he unlocks a door, and the single dimple makes a reappearance. “This will be your office, Elsie. If your pun game stays on point.”

            My fantasies of filling Jack with candy and taking a bat to him—do I need sugar?—are derailed by the high window overlooking campus. And the beautiful desk. And the matching shelves. And the giant whiteboard.

            God, this office is spectacular. I could sit here every day. Take in the hardwood smell. Sink into a comfortable chair MIT procurement purchased for me. Let my brain crunch away connections and expand my theories for hours.

            Finish my manuscript—the one that’s been on pause for over a year.

            I shiver in pleasure at the idea. Unlike at my apartment, no coconut-crab bugs would try to crawl in my mouth. My life would see a 900 percent reduction of May I pay this class’s tuition in Dogecoins emails. And the salary . . . I’d have personal finances. Real ones, not just dimes I forgot in my winter coat the previous year.

            I want this office. I want this job. I want it more than I have ever wanted anything, including that Polly Pocket set at age five.

            “Do you need some privacy? A mattress? Emergency contraception?”

            I whirl around. Jack is leaning against the doorjamb, the set of his shoulders relaxed, his frame filling the entrance. He stares at me with that lopsided smile that almost has me forgetting that we hate each other.

            “It’s . . .” I clear my throat. “A nice office.”

            “Just nice? You looked on the verge of something there.”

            I collect myself. “No, I . . . What’s the teaching load for the position, again?”

            He studies me, assessing, and I face away. I’ve had enough of him for today. “Do you enjoy teaching?”

            “Of course,” I lie, running a finger over a wooden shelf. It’s not even dusty.

            “You don’t,” he says, pilfering truths out of my skull. “Maybe you did before having to teach ninety classes a week, but not anymore.” It’s not a question. “The teaching load is two classes per semester.”

            I palm the filing cabinet. “Not too bad.”

            “You do know that there are physics jobs that require no teaching?”

            “I can get grants. Buy out my classes so I don’t have to teach.”

            “Grants are rare for theory. It’ll take you months to apply, years to hear back. Wouldn’t you rather be a full-time researcher?”

            I turn around, hands on my hips. “I’m okay with you not wanting me to get this job, but I draw the line at you not wanting me to want it.”

            His mouth twitches. “Seems to me like you want to want it a little too much.”

            “Jack, here you are.” A young woman stomps at the door of my—okay, the—office. She’s only a few inches shorter than Jack, with long dark hair and an accent that I cannot place. She is gesticulating. A lot. “They did it again.”

            “Did what?”