If it wasn't one of those parties you had to attend, Tom thought, you wouldn't. He drained his glass of Chardonnay and walked over to the bar to pour another.
When Roger Soloway, head of the Computer Science Department, threw a party, his employees were there, or they were square. Superficially jolly Roger was notoriously fickle with his favors. If you weren't on his good side, which was not easy to find amid all his other sides, you'd find yourself spending the next month debugging code written by ham-fisted undergraduates.
Tom shuddered. "I'm having a good time," he muttered to his glass.
"Oh, Tom, how are you doing?" Denise Soloway, Roger's stunning young bimbo wife, floated up to him.
"I'm having a good time," he said loudly, grinning, trying hard not to look down at her ample--and amplified, if he didn't miss his guess--bust.
"Oh, I'm so glad to hear it," she said in her wispy voice. "There's someone I'd like you to meet--do you have a minute?"
Expecting her to drag him off for a one-on-one with some earnest young computer science student, Tom drained his glass and followed her through the press.
Now that is fine, Tom thought as Denise drifted along ahead of him. What's a babe like Denise see in a blob like Roger? His success, obviously. The guy's only a year or two older than me, but he's got two Ph D's, he's head of the department, he's written three books.... The bastard never seems to have any doubts. Things just seem to work out for him.
Screeches of hilarity erupted from outside as one of Tom's more massive coworkers cannonballed into the pool. Denise lilted over to the crowd of people standing nearby and put her hand on the shoulder of a young woman.
Tom barely had two seconds to straighten out of his slouch and to slap an alert expression on his face as the woman turned toward them.
His first impression was of blue eyes--large, clear, attractive blue eyes. Then her face: heart-shaped, pretty. Very short black hair, nevertheless curly, and a slender hand being offered to him as Denise said, "Tom Walsh, this is my sister, Joan Meldon."
The family resemblance was striking, down--or up, depending on you looked at it/them--to her bosom. The only real difference was Joan's age, two years less than Denise's, and her close-cropped hair.
Also, Joan seemed to have inherited a set of brains from somewhere, because she was not only attractive, she was witty and well-read. She worked as a midwife.
"In fact," she said, glancing at her watch, "I've got an delivery this afternoon, so I have to leave in a few minutes."
Before she left, Tom secured her phone number.
"I'll call you," he said as they warmly shook hands at her departure.
Damn soon too, Tom promised himself as he drank a final glass of wine and ate some overcooked chicken slathered with Roger's "special" (in Tom's opinion all but inedible) bar-b-que sauce.
A short time later he was gunning his old Triumph through Huntington's narrow back roads, heading down out of the hills toward Bridgeport, feeling elated and driving faster than usual.
He examined the unfamiliar feeling in his chest and wondered if Joan was the one. Certainly, he'd been looking for--whoever that was--for some time now.
His life was otherwise in pretty decent shape, as lives went. He had a good job, great friends, a townhouse, two cars, a fat IRA.... The only thing missing had been the female component.
But damn, he thought, downshifting to make a show of slowing for a stop sign, how weird would it be to be Roger Soloway's brother-in-law?
Maybe not so bad! Roger might be a weasel-dick motherfucker as a human being, but he was a shining star in the AI community, and grants hung around him like a gold atom's electron cloud.
The Triumph roared through a stop sign onto Route 108. Tom shifted up. His heart felt like the Triumph's engine.
Love was something he hadn't allowed himself to think much about for the past few years. There as the business of settling into a career in Roger's lab, which demanded fifteen-hour days most of the time. He had had very little time to meet women, much less build relationships. The last time he had tried that, what had he gotten?
"Mary Ellen Knight, that's what," he said aloud, and grimaced.
What a nightmare that had been!
He glanced at the reservoir flowing past on his right. The water glowed dark blue-gray in the twilight. A faint mist rose from its surface.
Amazingly enough, thinking about Mary Ellen still gave him a pang. He supposed it was the wine. He hardly ever thought about her anymore. Five years had passed since he'd last seen her, but her oval face and dark eyes remained surprisingly clear in his memory.
Growling, Tom floored the Triumph for a quarter mile or so--then, disgusted by his childish outburst, downshifted and slowed to 45. The past was past, and that, thank heavens, was that. Mary Ellen was out of his life forever, say hallelujah! He concentrated on driving. With Joan's blue eyes dancing in his memory to replace Mary Ellen's brown ones.
Tom opened his eyes. A full moon shone in through the window, flooding his bedroom with thin silvery light.
That's right; solstice tonight. Pressure in his bladder. All that wine at the party. He pushed back the sheets and got up to go to the bathroom.
He returned to his bedroom and collapsed into bed. As he turned over, he opened his eyes for a last peek at the moon. It looked smeary. Sleep dirt, he thought. He blinked to dislodge the stuff from his eyes.
It didn't help; the smudge seemed to be in front of the moon rather than in his eyes.
Looks like it's floating in the middle of the room. Huh. That's a bizarre illusion. He levered himself up on his elbow.
Now what could do that, he wondered, squinting. Upper atmosphere ice reflecting the moonlight?
Even looks like it has a blurry kind of a face. Man in the moon reflected, that's weird!
In fact, it almost looks like....
"My God," he said. A chill swept over him; he knew that face.
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