The Rosie Project (Don Tillman, #1)

by Graeme Simsion

I predicted that if I purchased a mango and a peach ice cream, she would be incapable of differentiating. And, by extension, either would be equivalent to apricot. “They’re completely different,” she said. “If you can’t tell mango from peach, that’s your problem.” Now we had a simple objective disagreement that could readily be resolved experimentally. I ordered a minimum-size ice cream in each of the two flavors. But by the time the serving person had prepared them, and I turned to ask Elizabeth to close her eyes for the experiment, she had gone. So much for “evidence-based.” And for computer “scientist.”

“Professor Tillman. Most of us here are not scientists, so you may need to be a little less technical.” This sort of thing is incredibly annoying. People can tell you the supposed characteristics of a Gemini or a Taurus and will spend five days watching a cricket match but cannot find the interest or the time to learn the basics of what they, as humans, are made up of.

During the meal, she made an incredible statement: “Don, you would make someone a wonderful husband.” This was so contrary to my experiences of being rejected by women that I was temporarily stunned.

I told him that we had a discussion scheduled, but Gene was now focused on having coffee with the woman. Most male animals are programmed to give higher priority to sex than to assisting an unrelated individual, and Gene had the additional motivation of his research project. Arguing would be hopeless. “Book the next slot in my diary,” he said.

“So, did you have fun?” asked Gene. I informed him that his question was irrelevant: my goal was to find a partner and Rosie was patently unsuitable. Gene had caused me to waste an evening. “But did you have fun?” he repeated.

Hurtling back to town, in a red Porsche driven by a beautiful woman, with the song playing, I had the sense of standing on the brink of another world. I recognized the feeling, which, if anything, became stronger as the rain started falling and the convertible roof malfunctioned so we were unable to raise it. It was the same feeling that I had experienced looking over the city after the Balcony Meal, and again after Rosie had written down her phone number. Another world, another life, proximate but inaccessible.

“Overview, overview. Sunday to Wednesday. One sentence per day. Leave out eating, sleeping, and travel.” That made it easy. “Sunday, Museum of Natural History; Monday, Museum of Natural History; Tuesday, Museum of Natural History; Wednesday—” “Stop, wait! Don’t tell me Wednesday. Keep it as a surprise.”

By the time Rosie came back, I had performed a brain reboot, an exercise requiring a considerable effort of will. But I was now configured for adaptability.

Walking back to the hotel, I realized that I had behaved in stereotypical male fashion, drinking beer in a bar, watching television, and talking about sports. It is generally known that women have a negative attitude to such behavior. I asked Rosie if I had offended her. “Not at all. I had fun watching you being a guy—fitting in.” I told her that this was a highly unusual response from a feminist but that it would make her a very attractive partner to conventional men. “If I was interested in conventional men.”

Rosie put her arms around me and kissed me. I think it is likely that my brain is wired in a nonstandard configuration, but my ancestors would not have succeeded in breeding without understanding and responding to basic sexual signals. That aptitude was hardwired in. I kissed Rosie back. She responded.

I was relieved. The basic male-male tough advice protocol had been effective. It had not been necessary to slug him.

As the shuffle setting on my media player selected the same two songs over and over, I realized that my thinking was also beginning to go in circles and that, despite the tidy formulation, there was some flaw in my logic. I decided it was my unhappiness with the night’s outcome breaking through, my wish that it could be different. I watched the rain falling over the city and poured the last of the tequila.