Frameshift

Pierre took the sheet. “It says, ‘All Q-four staffing reports are due in the director’s office no later than fifteen Sep.’ ”

“Thank you.” She sighed. “I’m starting to get cataracts, I’m afraid. I guess I’ll have to have surgery at some point.” Pierre nodded sympathetically — cataracts were common among elderly diabetics.

He looked at his watch; his appointment was supposed to have begun four minutes ago. Damn, but he hated wasting time.

Although Molly had toyed with trying to get a job at Duke University, which was famous for its research into putative psychic phenomena, she instead accepted an associate professorship at the University of California, Berkeley. She’d chosen UCB because it was far enough away from her mother and Paul (who was hanging in, much to Molly’s surprise) and her sister Jessica (who had now been through a brief marriage and divorce) that they were unlikely to ever visit.

A new life, a new town — but still, damn it all, she kept making the same stupid mistakes, kept thinking that, somehow, this time things would be different, that she could take spending an evening sitting across from a guy thinking piggish thoughts about her.

Rudy hadn’t been any worse than her previous sporadic dates, until he’d gotten a couple of drinks into him — and then his surface thoughts devolved into nothing more than a constant stream of pornography. Boy, I’d like to fuck her. Eat her pussy. Split ‘em wide, baby, split ’em wide …

She’d tried changing the topic of conversation, but no matter what they were talking about, the thoughts on the surface of Rudy’s mind were like washroom-stall graffiti. Molly observed that the Oakland A’s were doing well this season. Fucking want to hit a home run with you, babe. She asked Rudy about his work. Work on this, babe! Suck it down all the way … She mentioned that it looked like rain. Gonna shower you, babe, shower you with come. …

Finally, she could take no more of it. It was only 8:40 — awfully early to end a date that had begun at 7:30 — but she had to get out of there.

“Excuse me,” said Molly. “I’ve— I think the pesto sauce is disagreeing with me. I don’t feel very well. I think I should go home.”

Rudy looked concerned. “I’m sorry,” he said. He signaled for the waiter.

“Here, we’ll get going; I’ll take you back to your place.”

“No,” said Molly. “No, thank you. I— I’ll walk home. I’m sure a little walk will help my digestion.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, really, I’ll be fine. You’re sweet to offer, though.” She took her wallet out of her little purse. “With tax and tip, my share should be about fifteen dollars,” she said, putting that amount on the tablecloth.

Rudy looked disappointed, but at least his concern for her health was genuine enough to have banished the Penthouse Forum commentary from his mind. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Molly forced a smile. “Me, too,” she said.

“I’ll call you,” said Rudy.

Molly nodded and hurried out of the restaurant.

The night air was warm and pleasant. She started walking without really thinking about where she was heading. All she knew was that she didn’t want to go back to her apartment. Not on a Friday night; it was too lonely, too empty.

She was on University Avenue, which, not surprisingly, ended up taking her to the campus. She passed many couples (some straight, some gay) going the other way, and picked up clearly sexual thoughts from those who unavoidably entered her zone — but that was fine, since the thoughts weren’t about her. She came to Doe Library and decided to go in. The pesto sauce was in fact making her intestines grumble a bit, so a trip to the washroom might indeed be in order.

After she finished, she went up to the main floor. The library was mostly empty. Who wanted to be studying on a Friday night, after all, especially this early in the academic year?

“ ‘Evening, Professor Bond,” said a librarian sitting at an information desk. He was a lanky, middle-aged man.

“Hi, Pablo. Not many people here tonight.”

Pablo nodded and smiled. “True. Still, we’ve got our regulars. The night watchman is here, as usual.” He jerked a thumb at an oak table some distance away. A handsome man in his early thirties with a round face and chocolate hair sat hunched over a book.

“Night watchman?” said Molly.

“Doc Tardivel,” said Pablo, “from LBL. Been coming in here most nights lately and stays right up to closing. Keeps sending me back to the stacks for various journals.”