Me: I wrote two pages for my thesis last night that i thought were good. this morning, they look a little less stellar.

Ben: Do you need help or are you venting? I need to know, so I can respond appropriately.

Me. venting.

Ben: I am sorry to hear that. You will get better. Try again.

***

Ben: Personal best today. I finished my five miles thirty seconds faster.

Me: is that a good thing?

Ben: It is. I am trying to get faster. Do you have a personal best?

Me: you know i do not run. not sitting on a couch would be my personal best.

***

Me: the souffle has collapsed. it is not a euphemism. we will need to do a postmortem of what happened.

Ben: Was the over at 375F like I wrote down?

Me: yes.

Ben: Did you wait for 25 minutes and then jiggle it while it was still in the oven?

Me: there was no jiggling, i took it out. we might have the cause of death.

Ben: I think you need to follow the recipe. That would be my advice.

Me: are you awake? (four am on a Sunday, he doesn't reply until seven am)

Ben: I was asleep.

***

My last day to review the microfilm is today and I can taste the victory. Winning the battle, not the war, as with all the relevant pages identified and printed out, I now have to translate and analyze what I have, but this once I choose to look on the bright side. Weeks of work in front of this monster of a machine, rewinding, staring at the screen, and not giving up-there's something to be proud of here. My phone lights up. The yo-yo is on the screen, and a fluttery empty feeling blooms in my stomach. Haven't I said text me? What's wrong with my instructions? What could've happened for him to call me? I hit decline.

Me: at the library. Call you back in a minute.

I run outside and call him back. He picks up right away.

"It's tonight," he rushes the words out.

"What's tonight?"

"The date with Linda, but we are not going out for coffee."

"Dinner?" I turn around the corner to begin my circle of the library building.

"No, we are going to a poetry reading."

"What now?"

"A poetry reading. I ended up asking about a book of poetry by E. E. Cummings, that Tall had suggested, and somehow it turned out to be one of her favorite poets. When I asked her out for a coffee, she told me about the poetry showcase of his work and how she would love for me to join her if I were free tonight. I said I was free because I am." He speeds up his already fast speech and I can feel his panic seeping through the phone. "I've never been to a poetry reading before. What do I do there?"

I so want to meet Tall. The sly old bastard probably knew about Linda's love of poetry and the event.

"I've never been to one either. I have no clue." I rub my arms up and down with my hands. Should've grabbed my jacket. "And don't ask me to come with you. I've no intention of being a third wheel."

"Not with us, just come to the bookstore and observe. Maybe text me if you see that I am messing up, and I will text you if I need help." Ben's voice shakes.

My temples tense and I unclench my jaw. I don't need a headache. "This is ridiculous. You'll be sitting and listening to some stuff on the stage, how involved is that?" Is this what I signed up for? I huff. "What's the worst that can happen? She doesn't like you, and you don't go on another date with her?"

"But she is my librarian. I will have to see her."

"You can always change libraries."

"Now you are being ridiculous. Come to the bookstore where it takes place, and if you see it is all going well, you can leave."

"OMG." Why, oh why did I sign up for this? My life didn't need additional time commitments, but breaking my promise is. Friends help friends. And it's not like he's asking me to go skydiving. I can survive a detour. Not going to ruin my day. "OK, I will be there, text me the address and the time."

***

Poetry readings are not on my list of things to do during my free time. I've no clue about poetry. Thinking about it makes my teeth ache. Sitting in a booth behind the happy couple and eating my pancakes while eavesdropping is one thing. Enduring an hour or, who knows, more of nonsensical words rhyming or worse not rhyming? I should've stood my ground and said no.

What's wrong with me? My stupid principle of not going back my word. It hurts to go against it. Saying one thing and doing the other is not me.It's his first date, I promised support. I'll show up, hide away and observe them and leave, before anyone notices. Not a great way to spend my free evening, but I can do it in the name of friendship.

The address Ben texted me is a fifteen-minute ride away from the library but not on any "L" line. I have some miscellaneous cash left for this month, so I dip into it to pay for a ride. I would've taken my car if I knew but it's too late for that now. The weather that greets me outside turned from the pleasant mild warmth I enjoyed on our Saturday's walk into a wall of gloomy rain. The wind's picked up and blows the cold, wet slashes across my body. True Chicagoans know it's practically suicide to try and wield an umbrella when the wind is this high. Luckily, I go nowhere without my trusty old raincoat which protects me at least from my knees up.

But it's no protection against the spray of dirty puddle water which douses me from my ride when it finally shows up. Worse, I'm forced to step in the pool of dirty water to open the passenger door and climb inside. Nice try fate, I have my not so fashionable but sturdy black boots to keep my feet dry and warm. The car's backseat is another story, rivulets of water run off me and all over the worn leather.

Ten minutes after the scheduled arrival time, the car I've been waiting for douses me with the dirty water from the deep puddle that separates me from the passengers' door. I must step into the middle of it to climb in. Rivulets of water come off me onto the seat and the floor, at least my sturdy black leather boots do their job, and my feet remain dry and warm.

The end-of-the-day traffic, exacerbated by the first significant rain of the season, makes the road a mess of serious crashes and minor fender benders. The cars crawl rather than zoom to their destination and I'm late.

The driver deposits me in front of a smallish independent bookstore, where the reading started ten minutes ago. Dashing from the sidewalk to the door of the shop, I slip on some wet leaves and fall on my ass.

'Shit," I yelp into the rainy dark. The universe must not want me here. I can still go back home and enjoy a warm bath, a glass of wine, and a good book.

I get up, wipe the dirt off with my hand over the wet coat, and I cover the remaining distance against the cold gasps of the wind.