Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

12


            COLLISION (INELASTIC)



From: [email protected]

                Subject: Macbeth reflection paper


Dr. Hannaday,


I’m focusing my paper on Lady Macbeth as the fourth witch. Some parts of the text support this interpretation—do you mind taking a look at what I have so far? The file is attached.


Sincerely,

                Cam





From: [email protected]

                Subject: who is cute


U doc u cute u really cute u sooooo cute





From: [email protected]

                Subject: Please disregard


Dr. Hannaway,


My roommate accidentally ate the wrong batch of brownies and locked himself in the bathroom with my phone. Please ignore any emails I might have sent.


Cheers,

                Ashton





From: [email protected]

                Subject: Thermo paper


Extension plz.



            The following week is soul-crushingly busy, with both the run-of-the-mill grind of adjuncthood and catching up on the work I missed during the interview. No worries, though: in between proctoring exams and teaching the wonders of the Fraunhofer diffraction, I still carve out opportunities to agonize over whether I got the job, when I’ll know whether I got the job, how I’ll know whether I got the job, and who’ll tell me whether I got the job. See? Excellent multitasking skills. Almost as though I’m not a human disaster juggling several subclinical mood disorders at any given time.

            The iTwat becomes my faithful companion, lest I miss a call, an email, a text message, a Vatican smoke signal informing me that my days of pain are gone:

            Welcome to MIT, Elsie, says Monica’s disembodied voice, ready to groom me as her successor.

            You’re now part-icle of the Physics Department, Volkov guffaws, hands on his belly.

            I hear you stole George’s job, Jack tells me, clucking his tongue from a whole foot above me, smiling only with those beautiful, genetically improbable eyes of his. You and I should really learn to get along.

            It’s all in vain. Whenever I pick up, it’s telemarketers. Phishing scams reminding me to pay a warranty on the car I do not own. Lucas, calling to bitch about Lance. Lance, calling to bitch about Lucas. Mom, calling to bitch about Lucas and Lance. On one memorable occasion, Dana calling to ask my opinion on whether my brothers would agree to have sex with her at the same time. “Why’s everyone so into threesomes all of a sudden?” I ask, and then hastily walk away when the secretary of the UMass Biophysics Department looks up from the exams she’s archiving.

            I try to call Greg, but he doesn’t pick up or answer my texts, which sends me into an additional spiral of anxiety: I’ve ruined his life. He’ll hate me forever. But I can’t force him to accept my apology, so I sublimate the nervous energy into refreshing my email: a beloved, if fruitless, hobby. No mit.edu address appears in my inbox—just students on the verge of mental breakdowns at 11:34 on a Wednesday night because they forgot whether chapter 8 will be covered on the test (Pls pls pls say no, Dr. H.). Because it’s grad school application season, a few even make it to office hours to ask for recommendation letters. When I point out to a Boston University senior that he failed my class, he blinks confusedly and asks, “Is that a no?”

            On Thursday night, halfway through loading the dishwasher, Cece catches me trying to unlock the home screen with my elbow.

            “That’s it.” She picks up the iTwat and slides it in her pocket. “I’m confiscating this till tomorrow.”

            “No. No, please! I really need it.” I sound defensive and whiny. What a combination. “It’s my Linus blankie.”

            “You’ve developed a transitional object in your late twenties?”

            “A what?”

            “Security blankets, teddy bears, you know. That stuff kids latch on to when they’re anxious, they’re called transitional objects.”

            “Where do they transition you to?”

            She gives me a consternated look. “The merciless ravages of adulthood.”

            It actually helps, not being able to stalk the social media of the entire MIT search committee for one evening. Monica posts only about the papers her grads publish, anyway. Volkov hasn’t been active since 2017, when he retweeted a “Thank God Newton wasn’t under a coconut tree” meme. George, if that’s his real account, is all about pics of his lunches (which look annoyingly delicious). Jack, of course, is not on social media.