Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            Which is fine. Because he’s in my head—plenty. Not that I know why. First, I’m not sure I believe anything he said. Second, I’m almost sure I don’t believe anything he said. Third, he’s still the guy who wrote that hoax paper, and fourth, he wants another candidate to get the job. Fifth: no. Just no. Sixth, if I believed anything he said, three, four, and five would still be valid.

            “No. I didn’t see him during the rest of my interview,” I tell Dr. L. when I visit him in his office.

            He smiles, pleased. His turtleneck is the same dark gray as his hair. “Very well, Elise. And what about your talk? Did you change it like I told you?”

            Dr. L.’s feedback can sometimes be a tad out of touch. For instance, I don’t think that writing the entire history of liquid crystals research on a slide in 8.5-point font is a good idea, but:

            “I did,” I lie. When he smiles again, I savor knowing that I pleased him, but the moment I step out of his office, guilt sweeps over me. For deceiving him. Or maybe . . . maybe for having admitted to myself that I find Jack, who ruined my mentor’s career, attractive—viscerally attractive, in a way I didn’t think I was able to notice.

            It occurs to me on Friday night that the attraction has little to do with him being tall or handsome, and everything to do with how perceptive he is.

            Jack sees me—a puppet who maybe, just maybe, is a real girl after all.

            And because he sees me, I cannot interact with him safely. And that’s why I’m not willing to think about the things he said to me. The way he looked. The dimple. His hand sliding up the inside of my thigh, warm, inexorable. Elsie. You know what I want to do to you? I shake my head. I’ll spare you the graphic details. I’m sure you can imagine.

            Okay—yes, there have been dreams. A dream. Graphic. Detailed. A little sweaty. But no, nope, no. I have other things to get an ulcer over. Time’s arrow. Climate change. The lack of government accountability and transparency. My professional future. I can choose what to stress about, and Jack’s not it.

            That’s what I tell myself until Saturday night, when it all comes to a head.



* * *



            • • •

            “Sometimes I wonder why I wasn’t born in the early seventeenth century, which really hinders my ability to wear a ruff in public and practice leech-based medicine. Or in ancient Rome, where I could have spent my days in a socially acceptable cycle of reclining, eating, puking. But then I experience wonders like this in IMAX, and I know, I just know, that I was meant to be alive in this day and age. My reward for an upright, leechless existence.”

            I blink at Cece, eyes still bleary from three hours in the theater. When we walked inside, the sun was up and the last week’s worth of snow had finally melted. Now it’s pitch black, and Cece’s catching a whole new batch of flakes with her tongue, like the Florida-born dork she is.

            I do love her. Quite a bit. And that’s why I sacrificed my precious Saturday afternoon to the gods of Faking It and spent it watching the original version of the famed 1968 Kubrick masterpiece, 2001: A Space Odyssey. One hundred and sixty excruciating minutes of solar system screen saver pics set to . . . Vivaldi, maybe?

            With movies like this, who needs waterboarding?

            “Wasn’t it amazing?” She beams.

            “It sure was lots of things.”

            Cece is not too high on the cinematography to notice my tone. “You didn’t like it?” She frowns. “I do agree that the ‘Dawn of Man’ scene where the ape looks at the bone was dearly missed.”

            “Um, yeah. That’s it.”

            She steps in front of me, cocking her head. Bundled up in her red maxi coat, she looks about sixteen. “You didn’t enjoy the movie?”

            It’s easier like that, isn’t it? Never showing anyone who you really are . . . When you’re yourself, that’s when you’re exposed.

            For a split second, what Jack told me flashes through my head, a too-catchy tune earworming around. It’s nothing I hadn’t known, but once put into words, it got harder to ignore—a brusque shift from procedural to semantic knowledge.

            Say I considered it. Cece, after all, is my closest friend. I could smile, slide my arm under hers, pull her toward the T station, and say conversationally, I didn’t like the movie. I have no idea what even happened. My favorite character was the evil computer, and twenty minutes in I was on the verge of letting out the piercing shriek of a million Brood Ten cicadas. Also I’d love to never again watch the director’s cut of literally anything—in fact, I’d rather spend an afternoon staring at my student loan portal, the one that makes me burst into tears once a month. And since we’re at it, the other day I caught your hedgehog defecating on my pillow. My tea is next.