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Authors: Laura Reese
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being used in the Human Genome Project. Also, from the basic science point of view, this work will be of interest to the theoreticians working on electrophoresis.”
M. looks mildly interested; he nods as if he knows what I’m speaking about, a faint, droll smile appearing and disappearing quickly. I wonder if I imagined it.
“To my knowledge I’m the only person who has ever systematically modified the charge on DNA and looked at its effects on DNA mobility in agarose gels.” This is accurate, of course, but a lie. I am appropriating the life of a scientist I interviewed several years ago, adopting his work as my own. I hope M. won’t question me further, and he doesn’t. He finishes the last of his coffee.
“I’m glad all the tables were full this morning,” he says. “I enjoyed talking to you.” He gathers his paper, stacks the sections together and folds the bundle in half. “I’d like to finish our conversation,” he continues, “but I must leave. I have a class at nine.” He pauses, looking at me from across the table. “Would you like to go out to dinner sometime this week?”
Inwardly, I sigh with relief. I thought it might be difficult to get to M., but he’s proving to be less complicated than I imagined. “Sure,” I say. “I’d like that.”
He stands up and I join him. We walk out the front door and stop on the pebbled sidewalk. Patchy clouds mottle the sky in a pearly-gray tessellated pattern. This early, there are few cars in the parking lot and the mall, normally busy, is deserted except for Fluffy’s. Two bicyclists, both college students with black backpacks strapped on their shoulders, ride up and park their bikes. They lock them to a metal bike rack, and enter the doughnut shop. A cold late-winter wind suddenly starts up and tosses my hair.
“The day after tomorrow?” he asks. Then he frowns. “No, that won’t work for me. How about tomorrow night? Will that be a good time for you?”
With my hand, I brush the hair out of my face. “Tomorrow would be fine.”
He pulls out a pocket notebook from inside his coat. “Great. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll pick you up at seven.”
I don’t want him to know where I live, that I rented a house only a few blocks from his. “I have a better idea,” I say. “Why don’t you give me your address. I’ll meet you there at seven and you can cook me dinner.”
He laughs. “You want me to cook you dinner? On a first date?”
I shrug and smile. “I love a man who cooks. You can cook, can’t you?”
He writes his address on the paper and tears it out of his notebook. He hands it to me, saying, “Sure. I enjoy cooking occasionally.”
So far, I think, this is easy.
Ian McCarthy is my boyfriend. He works at The Sacramento Bee also, a staff reporter who covers the capitol news. I’ve known him for years, but I didn’t start dating him until ten months ago, shortly after Franny died. If I didn’t believe in serendipitous events before, I do now: when I needed someone like Ian, he appeared—almost miraculously—by my side. We were barely acquaintances at the Bee , the most superficial of friends, and I considered him an annoyance at first—the importunate way he seemed to edge himself into my life immediately after Franny died—but I quickly warmed to his heartfelt manner. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love,” he’d said simply, trying to console me.
I knew what he was referring to. Several years ago a man stalked and killed his girlfriend. She had been a TV reporter for the Channel 3 news, and the Bee —along with every other local paper and news station—had covered the story extensively. The man had made threatening phone calls to her home, sent her photos he’d taken of her surreptitiously, then finally cornered her in the television station parking lot and stabbed her repeatedly. Now he’s in San Quentin.
“At least you know who killed Cheryl,” I said, thinking that must be
M. looks mildly interested; he nods as if he knows what I’m speaking about, a faint, droll smile appearing and disappearing quickly. I wonder if I imagined it.
“To my knowledge I’m the only person who has ever systematically modified the charge on DNA and looked at its effects on DNA mobility in agarose gels.” This is accurate, of course, but a lie. I am appropriating the life of a scientist I interviewed several years ago, adopting his work as my own. I hope M. won’t question me further, and he doesn’t. He finishes the last of his coffee.
“I’m glad all the tables were full this morning,” he says. “I enjoyed talking to you.” He gathers his paper, stacks the sections together and folds the bundle in half. “I’d like to finish our conversation,” he continues, “but I must leave. I have a class at nine.” He pauses, looking at me from across the table. “Would you like to go out to dinner sometime this week?”
Inwardly, I sigh with relief. I thought it might be difficult to get to M., but he’s proving to be less complicated than I imagined. “Sure,” I say. “I’d like that.”
He stands up and I join him. We walk out the front door and stop on the pebbled sidewalk. Patchy clouds mottle the sky in a pearly-gray tessellated pattern. This early, there are few cars in the parking lot and the mall, normally busy, is deserted except for Fluffy’s. Two bicyclists, both college students with black backpacks strapped on their shoulders, ride up and park their bikes. They lock them to a metal bike rack, and enter the doughnut shop. A cold late-winter wind suddenly starts up and tosses my hair.
“The day after tomorrow?” he asks. Then he frowns. “No, that won’t work for me. How about tomorrow night? Will that be a good time for you?”
With my hand, I brush the hair out of my face. “Tomorrow would be fine.”
He pulls out a pocket notebook from inside his coat. “Great. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll pick you up at seven.”
I don’t want him to know where I live, that I rented a house only a few blocks from his. “I have a better idea,” I say. “Why don’t you give me your address. I’ll meet you there at seven and you can cook me dinner.”
He laughs. “You want me to cook you dinner? On a first date?”
I shrug and smile. “I love a man who cooks. You can cook, can’t you?”
He writes his address on the paper and tears it out of his notebook. He hands it to me, saying, “Sure. I enjoy cooking occasionally.”
So far, I think, this is easy.
Ian McCarthy is my boyfriend. He works at The Sacramento Bee also, a staff reporter who covers the capitol news. I’ve known him for years, but I didn’t start dating him until ten months ago, shortly after Franny died. If I didn’t believe in serendipitous events before, I do now: when I needed someone like Ian, he appeared—almost miraculously—by my side. We were barely acquaintances at the Bee , the most superficial of friends, and I considered him an annoyance at first—the importunate way he seemed to edge himself into my life immediately after Franny died—but I quickly warmed to his heartfelt manner. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love,” he’d said simply, trying to console me.
I knew what he was referring to. Several years ago a man stalked and killed his girlfriend. She had been a TV reporter for the Channel 3 news, and the Bee —along with every other local paper and news station—had covered the story extensively. The man had made threatening phone calls to her home, sent her photos he’d taken of her surreptitiously, then finally cornered her in the television station parking lot and stabbed her repeatedly. Now he’s in San Quentin.
“At least you know who killed Cheryl,” I said, thinking that must be
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