Chapter 3

I throw the magazine at the wall. I’m screwed.
My roommate peeks her head through the door, tentatively, as if she’s afraid I might be dangerous.
“I’m an idiot,” I tell her.
She opens the door wider.
“That’s ridiculous. What makes you say that?”
“I can’t solve Sudoku puzzles.”
She looks curiously at the puzzle on the tattered magazine, which is lying on the floor like a dead, splattered mosquito.
“Please don’t look at that,” I protest.
“So what if you can’t solve Sudoku puzzles. Think of all the things you can do! You play piano like a goddess. And accordion, for God sakes.”
I can read on her face that she’s trying to read me. Finally she concludes, “This is about the math prof, isn’t it?”
“Well, um – yes.”
“Don’t worry about it. You are smart. I mean, you came up with that scarf trick.”
The scarf trick was a ruse I invented as an excuse to contact John, the math prof. After months of bumping into him on the elevator on my way to French class, I looked him up on the university directory, e-mailed him, and lied that I found a scarf that might be his.
“You have to admit that was smart,” Suzanne says.
Okay. Yeah. It worked. I got a date out of it.
So I go to my date. When I get to the café, Dr. John is already there, reading The Handmaid’s Tale.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say in a shaky voice.
“That’s okay,” he smiles. “I have a good book. Have you read it?”
“I started it, but – I don’t really like Margaret Atwood much.”
“What do you read, then?”
“Quirky stuff. Douglas Coupland, Roddy Doyle.”
“Could never get into them.”
It doesn’t get any better from there. He likes Manu Chao. I can’t even stand to listen to his name. I like the Patrick Watson Band. He says they’re too moody.
“So, um, what do you do for fun?” I ask.
“I dunno – go for a beer, watch movies.”
I dare not ask which movies.
“Oh, and I draw sometimes,” he adds.
“What do you draw?”
“Different stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“I draw my teapot.”
“What sort of a teapot is it?”
“Just a normal teapot.”
When I get back from my date, I tell Suzanne, “Now I know that profs can be boring outside of their classes as well as inside. How can I settle for someone so dull after . . . ” I trail, reminiscing about my conversations with Jeff: everything from Teletubbies to AIDS in Africa to quantum mechanics. ” . . . after dating someone as amazing as Jeff,” I conclude.
“This’ll cost you, Martine,” Suzanne says, holding up our alien head piggy bank. We have this pact that whenever we mention the names of our exes, we have to put a quarter into the alien head.
“So he’s not your soul mate. Maybe you could just have a fling with him,” she suggests.
I sigh. “I guess. I’m horny enough.”
I e-mail him a couple days later and invite him to my place for tea.
He comes over. After some banal conversation, I snuggle up close to him on the couch.
He pulls away slightly and says, slowly, tremulously, “Martine, I – I think I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“Um, well – I have a girlfriend. It’s an exclusive relationship. When you first contacted me, it wasn’t working out so well, and I thought . . . but, well, now . . . ”
“Now it’s going well again?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
“Yeah, you should have.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should probably leave now.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Thank you for not hitting me.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He scrambles to gather up his stuff and scurries away.
I stare blankly at the door. I’m disappointed, but the most traumatic thought going through my head right now is, “Oh, I guess I’m not getting laid tonight.” A few minutes later, Suzanne walks in.
“Was that your mathematician I passed on the way in?”
“Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, average all around?”
“Yeah. He is cute.”
“He’s a twit.”
“What did he do?”
I tell her the story and she comments, “Well, isn’t that nice. His relationship is going well, but they have nothing to talk about. What do they do all day? Solve Sudoku puzzles?”
Her eyes turn away from mine and focus on the couch.
“Martine, is that your scarf?”
She points at a green strip of cloth on the couch.
“I don’t believe it. He left his scarf!”
We both burst out laughing. Then she breaks off, eyes mesmerized. She picks it up. It slithers smoothly through her fingers like a garter snake.
“Pashmina,” she mutters in a voluptuous voice. The word “pashmina” means nothing to me, but I can tell by her reverent murmur that it should.
“Do you think I could make some money off it?”
The river of green stops still in her hands. She lifts her eyes and says with a devious smile, “Never say you’re an idiot, Martine. Never again.”