Spencer slides into the chair she just vacated and pulls out a notebook from his bag.
I click open his draft manuscript he sent me yesterday, scrolling to my notes. “You’ve referenced Frey and Lasker, which is good. But you need to engage more directly with the objections raised in Hoshino’s 2021 paper. They tore that whole assumption about negligible back-action to shreds.”
Spencer quickly scribbles this down. “How even the ancilla can’t be treated as non-interacting if you’re measuring actual cost?”
“Mm-hm.” I scroll again. “Drop the second figure, it adds nothing. And expand your derivation in section three.”
“Ok,” he says with a nod.
“And reframe your conclusions. They’re overstated for a conceptual model.”
Spencer hesitates, then chuckles awkwardly. “I guess I got excited.”
My eyes flick to him as he shifts in his seat, dropping his gaze to his notebook.
“So…” he continues. “You think it’s worth submitting?”
I lean back in my chair and turn my attention fully to him. “Why else are you doing this?”
He just stares back at me, like he’s not sure if that’s rhetorical or a trap.
So I take pity on him and nod.
And that’s all it takes for a huge smile to spread across his face. Then he just… sits there. Still watching me, like he’s waiting for a gold star.
Like we’re not fucking done here.
“That’s it,” I say.
It takes him a moment, but then his eyes widen. “Oh, ok, yeah.” He fumbles with his notebook, quickly shoving it into his bag as he stands.
“Have the revisions to me by Wednesday,” I say as he makes his way to the door.
He nods back at me as he hastily makes his exit. “Thanks, Dr. Cormier.”
Once he’s gone, I exhale slowly and rub a hand down my face… like I can wipe the interaction away.
He’s a smart kid, so it’s nothing on him. I just don’t want to supervise students. But I guess if I have to have one… this is the best-case scenario.
I tilt my head back and let my gaze wander over the ceiling, counting water stains and pinholes in the tiles like they might distract me long enough to avoid what I’m about to do.
But they don’t.
I lean forward, open the drawer again, and this time I don’t bother with the cup. I lift the bottle straight to my lips, even though my door is wide open.
But no one walks by, and no one sees.
I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved by that.
The rum burns down my throat, leaving behind that slow, familiar warmth I’ve come to rely on. It doesn’t make me happy, but at least it provides a dull heat where I’m usually cold. Just enough to let me function, show up, and pretend I care.
Though even then… I don’t.
A thin sliver of sunlight stretches across my desk as the sun finally breaks through the clouds, the same way the alcohol finally starts to settle in me… quiet, creeping, and deceptively gentle. I stare at it for a long moment before I shift my hand into the sunspot and let the light bathe my fingers.
But it doesn’t reach the places that matter.
Then, a low rumble cuts through the air, and my head snaps towards the window.
