Free How Not To Fall by Emily Foster

off to sleep with a fantasy about what will happen at five o’clock, Friday, May 2.

Chapter 7
    The Thing Is Super Sexy
    M y oral defense is not a formal part of my degree requirements. Professor Smith has her undergrad research assistants do it as practice for grad school defenses, but there’s nothing really at stake. I mean, nothing apart from standing up in front of faculty and peers and talking about the project in which you’ve invested the last two years of your life. So. Nothing at stake but basic pride, I guess. And if there’s anything I know for sure about myself at this point in my education, it’s that I can withstand any injury to my pride.
    For me, it’s also practice presenting the talk I’m giving at the World Congress on Psychophysiology in Montreal at the end of May. Charles is going too, so I won’t be completely on my own up there—Professor Smith can’t go because she’s Pregnant Like Whoa, but she’s helping me be as prepared as I can be for my first academic conference presentation.
    Charles is right. It’s a walkover. I’ve thrown myself into fixing the problems with my presentation, and I’ve prepared for the most abstruse and picayune comments, criticisms, and questions. I can respond to everything they throw at me, even Charles’s curveball of, “What methodological changes would you suggest to better control for individual differences in life histories of research subjects?” Why, I’d add the Adverse Childhood Experiences questionnaire, I tell him, as part of the standard protocol, the same way assessing for menstrual phase is becoming standard for all female subjects. Even when Professor Smith asks me about changing mood induction methods, and my real answer is, “Shit, I have no idea,” I manage to say it in a way that sounds like I kind of know what I’m talking about.
    After my defense, there’s cake and pizza for the whole lab. Professor Smith gives me a giant hug full of baby belly and says, “You’ll be great in Montreal.” Margaret squeezes me around the shoulders and says, “Dude, you totally nailed that.” The younger ducklings look at me with something like awe—I recognize it because it was how I looked at seniors defending their theses the prior three years. Charles stands five feet from me and says, “Well done, Annie,” and then goes into his office and closes the door.
    Well.
    Margaret and I go out to dinner in preparation for the drinking that will be happening tonight. As we’re getting ready to go out, I text Charles:
    Â 
    Hello. Where were we? Oh yes, 5pm on Friday. My place or yours?
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    I don’t have any idea where he lives, but it’s surely better than my undergrad shithole, so I’m hoping he says his. But he answers:
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    We’re going to TALK. Soma?
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    Oh. He wants to talk over coffee. Sigh.
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    That’s not super sexy.
    Â 
    Well spotted.
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    I’m not wrong that we have A Thing. The Thing is super sexy.
    There is a long silence. I wait fifteen minutes for this next text:
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    You are not wrong. And The Thing will only be enhanced by the early addition of some rational decision making, for which I shall require a context that provides the necessary barriers. Tables. Strangers. Hot, spillable drinks.
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    Is it just me, or does this sound like he wants to fuck me a lot?
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    Are you saying what I think you’re saying?
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    And rather a lot more, my termagant.
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    Okay THAT was super sexy.
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    Now fuck off. Go get drunk with the ducklings. Congrats on today. Be safe.
    Â 
    :-x
    Â 
    My friends get me drunk that night.
    That’s about all I can tell you.
    When I wake up in the morning, I am in an unfamiliar bed, which is not something I have experienced before. I am, fortunately, alone, but that means I have no clue as to where I am. Also, my entire body hurts. There is no part of me that