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Authors: Graeme Simsion
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was not the only one feeling awkward.
“Well,” she said, “it’s been an evening. Have a good life.”
It was a nonstandard way of saying good night. I thought it safer to stick with convention.
“Good night. I’ve really enjoyed this evening.” I added “Good luck finding your father” to the formula.
“Thanks.”
Then she left.
I was agitated, but not in a bad way. It was more a case of sensory overload. I was pleased to find some wine left in the bottle. I poured it into my glass and phoned Gene. Claudia answered and I dispensed with pleasantries.
“I need to speak with Gene.”
“He’s not home,” said Claudia. She sounded disoriented. Perhaps she had been drinking. “I thought he was having lobster with you.”
“Gene sent me the world’s most incompatible woman. A barmaid. Late, vegetarian, disorganized, irrational, unhealthy, smoker—smoker!—psychological problems, can’t cook, mathematically incompetent, unnatural hair color. I presume he was making a joke.”
Claudia must have interpreted this as a statement of distress because she said, “Are you all right, Don?”
“Of course,” I said. “She was highly entertaining. But totally unsuitable for the Wife Project.” As I said these words, indisputably factual, I felt a twinge of regret at odds with my intellectual assessment. Claudia interrupted my attempt to reconcile the conflicting brain states.
“Don, do you know what time it is?”
I wasn’t wearing a watch. And then I realized my error. I had used the kitchen clock as my reference when phoning the taxi.The clock that Rosie had reset. It must have been almost 2:30 a.m. How could I have lost track of time like that? It was a severe lesson in the dangers of messing with the schedule. Rosie would be paying the after-midnight tariff on the taxi.
I let Claudia return to sleep. As I picked up the two plates and two glasses to bring them inside, I looked again at the nighttime view of the city—the view I had never seen before even though it had been there all the time.
I decided to skip my pre-bed aikido routine. And to leave the makeshift table in place.
nine
“I threw her in as a wild card,” said Gene, when I woke him up from the unscheduled sleep he was taking under his desk the next day.
Gene looked terrible and I told him he should refrain from staying up so late—although for once I had been guilty of the same error. It was important that he eat lunch at the correct time to get his circadian rhythm back on schedule. He had a packed lunch from home, and we headed for a grassy area in the university grounds. I collected seaweed salad, miso soup, and an apple from the Japanese café on the way.
It was a fine day. Unfortunately this meant that there were a number of females in brief clothing sitting on the grass and walking by to distract Gene. Gene is fifty-six years old, although that information is not supposed to be disclosed. At that age, histestosterone should have fallen to a level where his sex drive was significantly reduced. It is my theory that his unusually high focus on sex is due to mental habit. But human physiology varies, and he may be an exception.
Conversely, I think Gene believes I have an abnormally low sex drive. This is not true; rather I am not as skilled as Gene in expressing it in a socially appropriate way. My occasional attempts to imitate Gene have been unsuccessful in the extreme.
We found a bench to sit on and Gene commenced his explanation.
“She’s someone I know,” he said.
“No questionnaire?”
“No questionnaire.”
This explained the smoking. In fact, it explained everything. Gene had reverted to the inefficient practice of recommending acquaintances for dates. My expression must have conveyed my annoyance.
“You’re wasting your time with the questionnaire. You’d be better off measuring the length of their earlobes.”
Sexual attraction is Gene’s area of expertise. “There’s a correlation?” I
“Well,” she said, “it’s been an evening. Have a good life.”
It was a nonstandard way of saying good night. I thought it safer to stick with convention.
“Good night. I’ve really enjoyed this evening.” I added “Good luck finding your father” to the formula.
“Thanks.”
Then she left.
I was agitated, but not in a bad way. It was more a case of sensory overload. I was pleased to find some wine left in the bottle. I poured it into my glass and phoned Gene. Claudia answered and I dispensed with pleasantries.
“I need to speak with Gene.”
“He’s not home,” said Claudia. She sounded disoriented. Perhaps she had been drinking. “I thought he was having lobster with you.”
“Gene sent me the world’s most incompatible woman. A barmaid. Late, vegetarian, disorganized, irrational, unhealthy, smoker—smoker!—psychological problems, can’t cook, mathematically incompetent, unnatural hair color. I presume he was making a joke.”
Claudia must have interpreted this as a statement of distress because she said, “Are you all right, Don?”
“Of course,” I said. “She was highly entertaining. But totally unsuitable for the Wife Project.” As I said these words, indisputably factual, I felt a twinge of regret at odds with my intellectual assessment. Claudia interrupted my attempt to reconcile the conflicting brain states.
“Don, do you know what time it is?”
I wasn’t wearing a watch. And then I realized my error. I had used the kitchen clock as my reference when phoning the taxi.The clock that Rosie had reset. It must have been almost 2:30 a.m. How could I have lost track of time like that? It was a severe lesson in the dangers of messing with the schedule. Rosie would be paying the after-midnight tariff on the taxi.
I let Claudia return to sleep. As I picked up the two plates and two glasses to bring them inside, I looked again at the nighttime view of the city—the view I had never seen before even though it had been there all the time.
I decided to skip my pre-bed aikido routine. And to leave the makeshift table in place.
nine
“I threw her in as a wild card,” said Gene, when I woke him up from the unscheduled sleep he was taking under his desk the next day.
Gene looked terrible and I told him he should refrain from staying up so late—although for once I had been guilty of the same error. It was important that he eat lunch at the correct time to get his circadian rhythm back on schedule. He had a packed lunch from home, and we headed for a grassy area in the university grounds. I collected seaweed salad, miso soup, and an apple from the Japanese café on the way.
It was a fine day. Unfortunately this meant that there were a number of females in brief clothing sitting on the grass and walking by to distract Gene. Gene is fifty-six years old, although that information is not supposed to be disclosed. At that age, histestosterone should have fallen to a level where his sex drive was significantly reduced. It is my theory that his unusually high focus on sex is due to mental habit. But human physiology varies, and he may be an exception.
Conversely, I think Gene believes I have an abnormally low sex drive. This is not true; rather I am not as skilled as Gene in expressing it in a socially appropriate way. My occasional attempts to imitate Gene have been unsuccessful in the extreme.
We found a bench to sit on and Gene commenced his explanation.
“She’s someone I know,” he said.
“No questionnaire?”
“No questionnaire.”
This explained the smoking. In fact, it explained everything. Gene had reverted to the inefficient practice of recommending acquaintances for dates. My expression must have conveyed my annoyance.
“You’re wasting your time with the questionnaire. You’d be better off measuring the length of their earlobes.”
Sexual attraction is Gene’s area of expertise. “There’s a correlation?” I
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