You're listening to the Allegretto of Beethoven's Seventh, your eyes shut, as you try to imagine the universe. You've had a fleeting image before, and now it's back, one of a kind of four-chambered pyramidal heart, four multidimensional membranes each pressing into the other. You're certain that somewhere in this arrangement is something far more elegant than "dark energy." Yet as you get lost in the fluidics of your model, the ebb and flow and give and take of it, it reminds you more of the curvy bodies of women, and suddenly you are imaging yourself with Ms. Mendaz or Mrs. Nguyen. You being to imagine Ms. Mendez's lush curved bursting through the seams of Mrs. Nguyen's French maid outfit, and you grab her -- it no long really matters which -- and fuck all hell out of her --
The phone rings. You realize you're mastrurbating furiously and are so far gone that you are helpless as you go ahead and ejaculate into your slacks. At least they're balck, but they still need changing. Cursing, you kill the music.
"Dr. Heiss speaking."
"Hey there, Dad ... Dad, are you all right? You're breathing hard."
You feel instantly tranquilized. "Oh, it's nothing, princess. Don't let the word get around, but ... I had a nap. I was having that dream of mine about the universe."
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. It's always the same dream." Up to a point, anyway. "What's up?"
"I think you can guess. My birthday is coming up -- "
"And you'd like your mom and dad to be there both at once. Princess, that sounds just fine to me. It's your mother who's the holdout. I'll figure out the universe long before I figure out your mother. I say let's just do what we always do. You see her first, then me last, and you get two birthdays out of it. Okay?"
"I just wish the two of you could get back together."
You hear it ever so faintly in the background, her breathing apparatus, and marvel. With so much of her own life to be concerned about ... "It's a good idea," you answer noncommittally. "But let's just stick to routine."
"I had to try. See you soon, Dad, love you."
"Love you, princess." As you hang up, you reflect on how even such an awkwardly timed call from your daughter Friday Heiss is still always most welcome.
You flick the TV on as you look through your closet for a fresh pair of slacks. Your office really is much too homey, but you've settled into that. As you change, you feel a bit disoriented. She's doing the noon newscast? Probably someone called off and she's filling in, in addition to her usual evening hours.
For at least the ten thousandth time, you marvel at how damn fine a specimen of woman Ingrid Goode. You kick yourself again, over how you took her for granted, over how you would get lost in mathematical reveries while she was pining for you. Now, you figure, she's out dating bland aimless non-entities who will never be your equal. It feels all wrong.
The door swings in. You're alarmed -- it was open the whole time? You came much closer to embarrassment than you imagined.
She's one very cute young woman in a steretypical, even fetishistic, costume: the thigh-high pleated plaid skirt, the snugly hugging sweater, the boldly bouncing ponytail. "Hey there, Dr. Heiss," she greets with a grin way too wide and friendly. "I wonder -- can I call you Jon?"
"Only if I can call you Ripley -- Ms. Jackson."
The redhaired Ripley Jackson shuts the door after her. "Very good. I was wondering if you'd remember."
"Just barely. I checked my records. I gave you a C."
"You were just a requirement to me. I went on to get a degree in business."
You notice the files she brought with her. Yes, she's a businesswoman, all right. |