He had dated her originally to get a better sense of science. All those hours in the lab, all those books devoured—she knew so much and there was so much she did not share. He would suggest fancy restaurants that he knew impressed her, some so expensive that only men like him could get reservations, and through the entire meal he would ask her questions. How do we know black holes are real? Does a memory make a difference in a cell? What exactly is inside-out water? Astronomy, physics, chemistry, biology, all were fair game, because all were the same to him. She answered his questions patiently, though there were many she brushed past on the way to the expertly prepared food, the fine wine, his chauffeured limousine, his bedroom. He allowed all of it, even with the sinking sensation that he was, if not exactly being used, being flattened somewhat by the circumstance. When would he be allowed to go deeper, to unlock the secrets of the universe? What if he was simply not smart enough? Sometimes he would hold her head between his hands, look into her eyes, glimpse a thought darting through the middle distance, and experience an amazement that he was in contact with this brilliant energy, even though his contact was largely limited to muscles pressed against one another in resistance, frustration transformed into pleasure, nerves deliriously overloaded. That was biology, wasn’t it?
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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