Love, Theoretically

by Ali Hazelwood

I’d give everyone the me they wanted, needed, craved, and in exchange they’d care about me.

Easy peasy, photons squeezy.

“I’ll say I’m feeling poorly, and we’ll duck out. And when the threesome offer comes, heavily imply that I have gonorrhea.”

Not that there would be anything wrong: sex work is legitimate work, and people who engage in it are just as deserving of respect as ballerinas, or firefighters, or hedge fund managers.

And yet here I am, fake-girlfriending my way through my student loans.

A mirror, reflecting only what others care to project. A bolt of fabric that can be custom tailored to—well. I’m sure everyone’s tracking the metaphor.

In another timeline we’d be best friends, bonding over the unavoidable stress ulcers that will soon ravage the linings of our stomachs.

“Hi, Elsie.” He says my name like it’s familiar to him. The first word he ever learned. Second nature, and not just a bunch of vowels and consonants he’s barely had reason to use before.

I find that people like me better if they don’t have to expend emotional energy on me.

I’m not sure what Jack’s deal is. There’s a dash of bad boy there, a hint of mystery, a dollop of smoothness. And yet a touch of hunger, a raw, unrefined air.

Jack looks distant. Uninterested. Effortlessly confident. Charismatic in an intriguingly opaque, inaccessible way.

I’m ready to graduate to a real relationship, ideally something lasting with MIT—who’ll put a 401(k) and a ring on it.

I don’t really have time for that. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or makes you resent your pathological inability to set boundaries, one of the two.

We’re just different breeds. Apples and oranges. Dwarves and elves. Cool scientists and less-cool scientists.

Her tribute to the Hunger Games of physics. A gladiator to take on Jonathan Smith-Turner, the entitled STEMlord she despises.

must be on Punk’d. General relativity was right: I’ve time-traveled back to the early 2000s. A camera crew and Uncle Paul are hiding behind that pretentious potted fern in the corner. The interview was a setup. My entire life is a joke.

I get along with people: I give them what they want, and all I ask in return is that they not actively dislike me.

I remember his hands, warm, unwavering around my waist, a hushed settle down murmured against my temple, and I suppress a shiver.

It’s complicated, being a woman in STEM. Even more so when you’re young and unproven. And even more so when you have a semi-pathological need to get along with others.

I’m not like a regular theorist. I’m a cool theorist.

Physics is like sex: it may yield practical results, but often that’s not why we do it.” At least that’s what Feynman once said. He’s also on record as calling women worthless bitches, but we’ll let it slide since his quote made you laugh.

“You are very impressive, Elsie.”

“I doubt you know anything about my work.” “I’ve read every word you’ve written.”

“Are you turning yourself into what I want? Is that why whenever I’m with you, I . . .” His voice trails off, or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I’ve just reached critical mass.

“Not everyone wants you to be someone else, Elsie.” He’s wrong about that, but I can smell his skin. It’s good in a way that’s primeval. Almost evolutionary. I hate it. “And I definitely wouldn’t want you to be George.” “And why is that?” He presses his lips together. He’s even closer now. Surprisingly earnest. “It would be a waste.” “A waste of what?” “Of you.”

“On a scale from taking a CrossFit class to writing parody articles as a form of activism, how mad are you that someone suggested you use a model of mine?”

“I just said that I hope you get the opportunity to continue your work, because you clearly are one of the great minds of our generation.”

“Either way, as a mother myself,” Cece says with a meaningful glance at Hedgie, “if my douchebag kid came to me whining that the rising star of theoretical physics denied him an eighty—”

“Seventy.” “—seventy-dollar hand job—the audacity of that bitch—I’d exclusively be angry at my douchebag kid.”

“Jacky has a thing for you. Like, he stares all the time. And he asks so many questions about you.”

“Bold of you to assume that the real me is my best hand.” That stupid, crooked half smile is back. “Foolish of you to think it isn’t.”

“Have you considered that maybe you’re already the way I want you to be? That maybe there are no signals because nothing needs to be changed?”

It’s because I want her for myself. I want to . . . I don’t even fucking know. I want to take her to dinner, make sure she’s relaxed, make sure she doesn’t feel like she needs to think two steps

ahead. I want to know why she can hold a Go stone. And I really, really want to . . . well. I’ll spare you the graphic details. I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I’m relieved because whatever thing I have for her, it’ll go away. It won’t survive knowing that she lied. Except that I didn’t account for having to watch her talk about physics, or read her work. I didn’t account for having to spend two days with her and finding out that she is . . .” He smiles at me. Gentle. Resigned. “Spectacular.”

“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.

“Because this is not your character arc, Elsie. More like a . . . character bump.”

“In my weird fantasies, Elsie . . .” He shifts me till our curves and angles match up. Perfectly. “In my fantasies, you allow me to keep an eye on you.” I feel his lips at my temple.

“And when I really let go, I imagine that you let me take care of you, too.” It does sound outlandish. “Why?” “Because in my head, no one has done it before.”

“In my experience, we all want to trust our mentors, but they don’t always have our best interests in mind.”

I don’t care much about most people, but I can’t stop paying attention to you.”

“I imagined being with you like this a lot. But, Elsie, this is unreal. You are unreal.”

“When I get inside you, I’m going to lose my fucking mind,”

“I think I want to do this every day,” he responds, kissing my pussy like he would my mouth. “Every day for the rest of my life.”

“There were days, these last few months, when you were all I could think about. Even if I didn’t really want to.” Then a choked “Fuck” that feels like a rush of breath against my lips, and I know he’s there.

This is about him and me. And the possibility of something that goes far beyond the both of us.

“Be gentle with me, Elsie. That’s all I ask.”

He talks like his Saturday nights belong to me, even though this thing with us only just started, and my heart skips too many beats.

“You could be my entire world,” he whispers in my ear before moving to my collarbone. “If you let me.”

The sun is high in the sky, Jack is deep inside me, and I smile into the sheets for no particular reason.