In graduate school Jen met Gary Graham, the only other man she’d ever slept with. Gary was a too-brilliant-for-his-own-good Ph.D. student in political theory. Constantly exploring esoteric theories about the connection between world tragedies and elections in democratic countries, he was certainly an intellectual match. But other than talking about political science, which they could do for hours, Jen and Gary had nothing else in common. At the age of 26, Gary was already smoking a pipe and always wore a tweed sport coat. He was pretentious, a self-proclaimed (actually pseudo) connoisseur of fine wine, gourmet food, and sex. While conversation about political science was interesting, Jen wanted to talk about other things, too, like… just about anything else. When Gary ventured into other areas, it was as though he was talking about political science. He was an expert on that particular topic as well. It never mattered what the topic was.
Reflecting back on it all, Jen was disturbed. She had spent the past decade and then some in two rather meaningless relationships that provided no real emotional connection or fulfillment. She also had hoped she would have experienced an orgasm by her thirtieth birthday. Her lack of a love life had provided plenty of time to write two books and 14 articles on voting behavior, and she had appeared as an expert for one of the TV networks during the past two presidential elections. But at 31, Jen wanted and needed to live — to soar, not just go through the motions. Professionally, she was there, but that was it. And no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, her biological clock, from time to time, ticked loudly. However, Jen still had hope. After all, she saw Mandy fall in love in the most random of situations and out of nowhere. Before she met her fiancé, Mandy’s love life was no better than Jen’s. All it took was one.
“Good night, Professor Savin,” a student said as he left the large lecture hall after Jen’s last class of the week. Jen waved while she packed her worn leather briefcase. The weekends in Minneapolis were the toughest part of the move from D.C., especially in the winter, when it was dark by 4:30 in the afternoon. Jen had only met a handful of people, all from the university. But she was determined not to spend another Friday at the movie store, even though it had worked for Mandy. On the way to her car, she stopped at Happy’s, a campus bar full of pool tables, darts, barrels of peanuts, and two-for-one happy hour specials. The bar was almost empty, except for a few tables of students. After a few glasses of pinot grigio, Jen felt content. She liked the university and she loved being a professor. When she looked around the bar, she saw potential. Not so much in the bar itself, but in general. More than two million people lived in the metro area around the Twin Cities — something would happen. After another drink, Jen sauntered over to the jukebox, played “Brown Eyed Girl,” her favorite Van Morrison song, and found an empty dart board. A few throws into the game, a guy carrying a pitcher of beer knocked into her back.
Page 35
