Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            The thought of admitting any of this makes my right side ache. That ulcer, probably.

            I still slide my arm under Cece’s, but what I say is, “It was sublime. The journey of man’s consciousness into the universe. The eventual passage of that consciousness onto a new level.” It’s a line from Roger Ebert’s 1997 review of the movie. I memorized it this morning.

            “Unparalleled.” She beams, then squints. “It’s the job—that’s why you’re blergh.”

            “I’m not blergh. Am I blergh?”

            “Yes. Are you worried about the job?”

            “No.”

            “No?”

            “Well,” I concede, “yes.”

            She stops me in the middle of the sidewalk. “You’ll get it. You did great.”

            “I’m . . .” Cece’s in a good mood from watching slo-mo space ballet, and I don’t want to spoil it. I smile. “Very optimistic.”

            “Maybe we should watch another movie when we get home.” She tugs at my sleeve. “Something light and funny. Modern Times? Or The Great Dictator? Laughter is the best medicine.”

            “I think antibiotics are the best medicine. Unless it’s a viral infection, in which case—” I stop because someone behind me is saying my name.

            The worst thing is, I know exactly whose voice it is, because it’s burned into my auditory cortex in a way that signifies certain neural damage. But I turn around anyway, and there he is.

            Jack.

            In his black North Face coat, which is familiar by now. With his broad shoulders and light hair and inexplicable, gut-felt presence. Taking up more room than he should on the sidewalk, looking at me as though I’m the ghost of Nikola Tesla and meeting me by chance in downtown Boston is unforeseen but very welcome.

            “Oh,” I croak. Shit. Shit? Shit. Why is he here? “Um . . .”

            “It’s hi.” God, his voice. That lopsided smile. “That’s what you say when you meet someone, Elsie.”

            “Right.” I swallow. “Hi.”

            My first thought is that I’ve conjured him. By thinking about him forty times a day—up to and including seconds ago.

            The second: I must be cursed. All I want is to excise Jack from my life, but I’m just like the Australopithecus afarensis in 2001: trying to frolic in the prehistoric veldt, forever doomed to be hunted by an alien monolith. (I think? I dozed off.)

            The third: he’s not alone. There’s a tall woman by his side, with long braided hair and deep-red lips. They were clearly in the middle of laughing about something. When Jack stopped to talk to me, she bumped against him and never moved away.

            He’s on a date.

            With someone else.

            Jack’s out on a date with someone, and it feels like a stone in my belly.

            “One of your grads?” the woman asks, entertained. Her dark skin is immaculate, and she looks familiar in the way very beautiful people often do.

            “No.” Jack has yet to look away from me. “Not quite.”

            “Hi.” Cece interrupts with her most charming grin. “Clearly Elsie is experiencing a breakdown in the social pragmatic skills necessary to introduce us, so . . . what’s your name, tall gentleman?”

            “Jack.”

            “Nice to meet you, Jack.” She thrusts out her hand, which disappears inside his. I stare, half-paralyzed. “I’m Celeste, Elsie’s most favorite person in the whole world.”

            “Are you?” His eyes slide to mine. “Must be nice.” He’s still half smiling, like this is making his Saturday night.

            “Well, you know, it’s hard work. Lots of cheese sharing. And I did just take her to watch 2001, which she loved.”

            “Oh my God!” The Most Beautiful Woman in the World is delighted. “We were in there, too.”