EXCERPT - Hero is a Four Letter Word

The Maddening Science - PART V

She jerks back as if I've bitten her. "Oh my god, how can one man be such a dick?"

I press upwards so her pelvis comes in contact with the part of my anatomy in discussion. "I am honest, Rachel. There is a difference."

She sits back, arms crossing over the breasts I hadn't yet touched. "An honest supervillain," she scoffs.

I stand, dumping her onto the floor. "I think we're done here."

"Are we, Profess—"

"I've asked you not to call me that!"

She cowers back from my anger. Then it fuels her. "Fuck you, Olly," she says, standing.

"I thought that was the idea," I agree, "but apparently not."

"You're nothing like I thought you'd be!"

I laugh again. "And how could you have had any concept of how I'd be? Did the Dynamic Dyke tell stories? I bet she did. And you felt sorry for me. The poor Professor, beat up by mommy, hated - like you were. An outcast, like you were. Not good enough, like you were. Was I your imaginary friend, Rachel? Did you write my name in hearts on your binders? Did you fantasize about me?"

"Shut up!" she screams.

Her cheeks are red again, her eyes glistening, her mouth bruised, and I want to grab her, kiss her, feel her ass through the borrowed sweatpants. Instead I fold my hands behind my back, because I told the truth before—I am a gentleman. I say nothing.

"You're not supposed to be like this!"

"Be like what?" I ask, again. "Explain, Rachel."

She collapses. It's a slow folding inward, knees and stomach first, face in her hands, physicality followed by emotion as she sobs into the carpet. I stand above her and wait, because she deserves this cry. Crying helps people engage with their emotions, or so I'm told.

When her sobbing slows, precisely one thousand six hundred and seventy-three seconds later—twenty-seven point nine minutes—she unfolds and stands, wiping her nose. I offer her a handkerchief from the pocket of my labcoat, and she takes it and turns her back to me, cleaning up her face.

She picks up the textbook. She opens it to the back, to those useless blank pages that are the fault of how books are bound, and for the first time in a very, very long time, I am shocked.

The back of the book has been collaged with photographs. Of me.

Computer printouts of me when I was the Prof. Newspaper clippings of my trial. Me, walking down the street, hunched into the shadow of my sweater's hood. Me, buying soymilk. Me, through the window of the shitty apartment on which Oliver Munsen can barely afford to pay rent. Me, three days ago, cutting through that same parking garage.

Genuine joy floods my blood. A small shot of adrenaline seethes up into my brain and I can't help the smile, because I missed this, I really did. "Oh, Rachel. Are you my stalker? How novel! I've never had a stalker before."

She snaps the cover shut. "I'm not a stalker."

"Just an admirer?" I ask, struggling to keep the condensation out of my voice. "Or do you want me to teach you how to be a villain? Really get back at mommy dearest?" Her expression sours. "Ah. But you already know that you can't be. You knew before I told you that you were born boring. So this is the next best thing." I reach out, grasp her elbows lightly, rub my callused thumbs across the tender flesh on the inside of them. She shivers. "Tell me, how were you going to do it, Rachel? Were you going to accidentally bump into me in that parking garage? Were you going to spill a beer on me in a bar? Buy me a coffee at my favourite cafe? Surely getting shot was not in the plan."