-Into the Twixter-

My weekly service gig at the food bank has another element, now. Ever since the volunteer coordinator talked about introducing me to his daughter, all of my duties there are less volunteer, and more obligatory. To think that a service project lasting less than two hours per week could have someone imagining how weird it would be if this guy should become your future father-in-law. And mind you, this is before I met the daughter.

Now that I have, these thoughts haven’t quieted down. And the only reason why they haven’t gotten louder is working across the hall, working her last day, in fact.

Some part of me wanted the getting-to-know-you lunch with the Artist on Tuesday to fail miserably, making the choice that much easier. Likewise, it would have simplified matters if the Scientist had turned down my offer of last-day-on-the-job drinks tonight.

Neither did, and both gave me a turn today when they nearly collided. I am not, strictly speaking, dating either one of them yet. But if they did run into each other, I can easily see how things would appear. They might strictly-speak my ass right out of the building.

The Artist

It started with an email from the artist’s father that I believed had settled the matter once and for all. He told me there must have been a miscommunication, because she had to work all afternoon and couldn’t meet me then, as I thought we had arranged. His comment at the food bank on Wednesday had seemed odd then – now it came flying back:
“Even if you two don’t hit it off, she can probably introduce you to some other people in town!”

Guess she wasn’t really interested, I thought, and felt the tiny but familiar wrench of rejection coupled with a sigh of relief that part of the equation had fallen into place. Both feelings jumped out of my chest at 11 AM when the Artist intercepted me in the library. We perused the stacks for a while, and exchanged phone numbers. I am currently lying to myself, pretending that everyone else: coworkers, students, tutors, etc. all believed she was a patron, but it must have been sadly obvious that she was not. Still, my luck held – the scientist did not round the corner as she wrote down her number.

I’m conditioned to believe that sort of thing usually happens, and when it does not, I exult like a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court who just learned his execution date coincides with a solar eclipse.

The Scientist

Hours later the Scientist came into the library. She told me it was her last day; I surprised myself by asking her out on the spot. She accepted, and we chatted as much as one can on their last day of work, when there are so many other people to say goodbye to.

At some point my community service came up; she was intensely interested in the food bank. Interested, she repeated, in volunteering there.

In the Norse version, this is the part where the heroes realize that the jaws of the great wolf Fenrir scrape heaven and earth. No one escapes their Ragnarok or mine intact.