The Mathematics of Change

Chapter Two-3

Her shoulder protested when she climbed into the truck bed but relaxed when she lay down on the unfurled sleeping bag. Under the faint whistle of the breeze, a huge nothingness pulsed against her ears, and she watched the stars move without visible motion while she thought of Reginald.

He’d come up to her after her presentation, when she was putting her laptop and notes into her backpack, that seen-better-days one she’d had since high school. She looked up, and he was there, a tall black man she could describe only as being all smiles. She felt herself grin in involuntary response.

She took his hand. It was broad and warm, and he held on for a beat longer than she expected.

“Dr. Mitchell,” he said. “Excellent talk.”

“Thank you.” Then, on an impulse, she said, “Call me Mitch.” Her first name existed as merely an alliterative initial on her publications and the conference literature, Mitch knowing how it generally just confused matters.

“Mitch,” he said.

The sliver of a question in his voice made Mitch’s delight at his face curdle around the edges. “No, my mother wasn’t a sadist.”

He laughed loudly, his mouth open with it. “You’re lucky. Most mums I’ve known fit that description perfectly. Mine, for example, named me Reginald, and if that weren’t bad enough, she went on and called me Patty for no good reason through most of my formative years.”

Later, through more sessions and a buffet dinner she should have skipped, she couldn’t quite pinpoint how that innocent introduction had led to a date for after-dinner drinks. Maybe his laugh had done those things or how he used her name at every opportunity. Maybe it was his indefatigable jolliness or the way he asked about her favorite cocktails and her company’s work with equally transparent interest. But, that evening, three drinks in, she put her hand on his, and Reginald signaled for the check with such alacrity that he startled people two tables over.

His desire was like his smile, so strong and clear that reciprocation felt wonderfully inevitable. All of the innumerable ways he was different from Kim incited an excitement she had no desire to analyze in the least. She just stopped him outside the door to his room and dug into their kisses, instead.

After they finally made it inside, she watched Reginald work his way out of his shirt and bright white undershirt, belt and trousers, all the while prattling on about tweed. Despite wondering with a throat-tightening want exactly what his skin felt like, Mitch couldn’t move. Reginald was down to socks and boxers patterned with screwdrivers and tape measures before he stopped talking and seemed to notice.

“Mitch?”

“Yeah, Patty?”

“Perhaps I got the wrong idea.”

“No. I just … Reginald …”

“Patty. Please.”

“I kind of have a girlfriend.”

“Oh.” Reginald sat on the bed and crossed a black-socked ankle over the opposite knee.

“I mean we’re basically at the point where we’ve decided to pull the plug, but no one wants to be the one to do it.”

“May I ask if your hesitation is about infidelity or the inconvenient fact of my p***s?”

Mitch’s hesitation wasn’t about Kim or Reginald’s p***s or even her own ugly face. It had something to do with the inherent unpredictability of people compared to metal and current, with the amount of time it took to suss out someone new, to trace their internal logic—or lack thereof. But there Reginald was, one hand sneaking over to where his pants draped next to him. He wanted her; it was all over the lay of his naked chest. At this moment, it didn’t matter that she didn’t know why. She trusted her observations, took a step forward, and started unbuttoning.

The last afternoon of the conference, Mitch lay with her head on Reginald’s shoulder, watching the digital clock count down to the very last moment she could stay in bed and still make her flight. She’d slept with men since high school, but not many and not with this strange mix of comfort and desire. She thought about rescheduling her flight to the next morning, when Reginald was leaving, then put it out of her mind.

Reginald ran his hand from her shoulder to her elbow. “How many more minutes do I have?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not sure if I’m impressed or dismayed that you can manage to check the time while in the throes. Or maybe you were faking it?”

“I don’t fake anything.”

“Yes, I got that delightful impression. You never answered me. How many more minutes do I have?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven. Brilliant. I’m less than a half hour from remaining the dashing, debonair Englishman with whom you had your wicked way at this conference, and I’m quite sure I’m going to blow it.”

“Patty, don’t.” Mitch tried to get up, but he held her tight.

“The problem is that I don’t want you to stay just the brash, brilliant vixen I bedded.”

“Vixen?”

“It’s the closest I can get right now. Don’t change the subject. I’ve never been good at one-night stands, and it’s not a skill I want to cultivate now.”

“Did you rehearse this?”

“Maybe a little. Is it working?”

“It’s splendid. But you still live in London, and I’m …”

Reginald raised an eyebrow. “A lesbian?”

“That’s not what I was going to say. You live in London, and I’m a workaholic. I’m not particularly good at relationships, not even local ones.” She really hadn’t been about to bring up his maleness, though it was certainly hard to forget, but it seemed like such a small thing in the face of the many other reasons why they shouldn’t try to pursue this. Despite recent history, she wasn’t a lesbian, anyway, not in the narrow, militant, exclusive way most people meant when they said it.

“And my p***s has nothing to do with it.”

“Your p***s is delightful,” Mitch said and gave it a soft squeeze. “Besides, I’m not gay, I’m … something else.” Twenty-three minutes. She disentangled herself from Reginald, sat up, and rubbed her shoulder. “Maybe I’ve convinced you that a relationship with me is all fun and games, but if you don’t get sick of me—the insomnia, the smell of chlorine, the T-shirts and jeans—you’ll get sick of my work.”

She started to slide out of bed, but Reginald took hold of her wrist. “Did you stop to think that if you’re ‘something else,’ which you surely are, I might not be like everyone else either? It’s the something else in you I don’t want to give up—your devotion is exciting even if you’re clearly not devoted to me.”

Mitch looked away from him, not at the clock or for her clothes but at her bare foot against the dark carpeting. Reginald made her feel uncomfortably exposed. He couldn’t really know what he was saying—Mitch had heard variants of those words before, though admittedly not so on the mark, and she had still managed to wear out her welcome.

She closed her eyes. “Okay. But email only.”

“Are you going to set a limit on word count?”

Mitch smiled. “Knock yourself out.” She looked at the clock.

“How many minutes?”

“Twenty.”

“Exactly?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s just time enough,” he said and pulled her back into bed.