Page 52 of Love's a Script
The TV concealed Mary’s entrance into the living area. Ruben stood at the stove, his back to her, and she froze like a gargoyle as multiple thoughts crossed at once. Where was her shirt? Could she grab her belongings and bolt before Ruben noticed? His triceps looked particularly pronounced in the T-shirt he was wearing. Was he making pancakes? Yes, there was already an impressive stack beside him. He’d made breakfast for them.
“Something smells good,” she said, her exit plan forgotten.
Ruben turned. “All for you,” he declared with a smile. “Have a seat. I’m almost done.”
She couldn’t just dip after he’d spent time preparing food for her, so with butterflies in her stomach, she sat at the kitchen island in front of one of two placemats. He asked her what she wanted to drink, and she told him whatever he was having was fine.
“The ice cream was on the counter all night. I had to throw it out,” he said when he joined her at the table with hibiscus tea, pancakes, fake bacon, and condiments.
“Wow, so no root beer float, then?”
“No, sorry. But I think I made up for it, right?” he replied with an impish smile that warmed Mary’s cheeks.
She didn’t appreciate how hungry she was until she began to eat. She complimented him on the softness of the pancakes, and he told her the baking powder was the source. They didn’t talk much during the meal, only occasionally commenting on a news headline from the TV. It was comfortable. Easy. But she soon became overwhelmed by the normalcy of it all. The dread she’d felt while lying in his bed earlier crept up again, stifling all enjoyment. She got up from her seat and said, “I’ve got to go. I need to get home and shower and prepare for work.”
“Okay,” Ruben said casually, looking at her plate of unfinished pancakes. “I can pack that up for you.”
“Sure, yes! Thank you,” she said as she quickly found her coat and boots. Once she had the Tupperware of half-eaten pancakes, she left, but as she was waiting for the elevator and beginning to relax, Ruben exited his apartment and called out, “Mary!”
She turned and watched him jog to her, ruffled by the unexpected encore. “Your shirt,” he said when he arrived before her. “It was in front of the sofa.”
“Oh, thank you.” She looked down at the hoodie she still wore. “I can?—”
“It’s fine. Give it back whenever,” he said as the elevator door opened. He tipped her chin upward and kissed her sweetly. “Have a good day.”
Mary didn’t know if she replied before stepping into the elevator in a daze. As she descended to the ground level, it felt like everything inside her was too.
“What’s got you in a jolly little mood today?” Chesa asked as she and Ruben exited the conference room after the staff morning meeting where they’d chosen topics to discuss on that evening’s show, including a story about a series of olive oil heists perturbing authorities in Ontario that Ruben was most entertained by.
“Jolly little mood?”
“Yeah, you were whistling when you came in this morning.”
Had he? Ruben shrugged. “Restful night, I guess.”
However, that made no sense, seeing as he’d only gotten a handful of hours of sleep on a bed he’d been shoved to the edge of by Mary’s erratic sleeping positions. He squashed the sudden smile that wanted to emerge as he recalled waking up with her knee nestled against his ribs and her hand splayed across his face. Despite this, his morning had been as enlivening as any well-executed routine of health tonics, aerobics, and journaling. It was perhaps why he was in no rush to contemplate the impact their actions would have on the future.
“Hey, Ruben,” called one of the station’s bookers from his cubicle. “Your 10:30 interview is waiting in studio B.”
“Thanks, Corey,” Ruben said, grabbing his notes from his desk. The biologist was early, but it was better than the alternative. As the deadline for the feature approached, Ruben and Chesa were hoping to complete the remaining expert interviews and start drafting the narration script soon.
When Ruben entered the studio, he nodded to Novak, who was already in the rack room. The biologist, Lincoln Goddard, sat at the broadcasting desk, inspecting his surroundings. The older man had gray, receding hair and rectangular glasses balancing on the tip of his nose.
“Doctor Goddard, nice to meet you,” Ruben said, shaking the professor’s hand. “Thanks for doing this in studio.”
“I’m always happy to talk about my research.”
Ruben instructed Goddard to put on his headphones while he adjusted the microphone to sit above the older man’s eyeline. “Talk like you regularly talk,” Ruben told him. “I’ll ask you questions, and you answer however you see fit.”
“Oh, like an interview. I’ve done those before,” the man quipped, and Ruben smiled. Humor boded well for their conversation. Guests often became uptight in the studio, fearing that any sudden movement or a too-heavy sigh might wreck the expensive equipment. But that sort of insecurity produced stiff interviews.
As Novak finished setting up the recording levels, Ruben found his seat on his side of the desk and asked the professor, “What drew you to the field?”
Goddard leaned back into his chair. “Many people think it was an undying love for animals, but that’s not the case. I’m actually quite terrified of them. A German shepherd bit me as a boy, so I’ve never even owned a pet. But I’m fascinated by beings we can’t truly communicate with. Ironically, I find it simpler studying nonhuman animal behavior.”
“Why’s that?” Ruben asked.
“It’s less frustrating. I can assume that eight times out of ten, the female peacock will go with the male with the biggest, flashiest train. Meanwhile, humans have access to higher-order thinking. We are prone to inconsistencies, subjectivity, and to act against our own species’ survival. We fall in love, and love is—” The professor laughed. “Well, love is a wily fucker—can I swear?”
