Miranda in Retrograde

10. Libra Season

LIbrA SEASON

Today will be one of relaxed contemplation. The Moon slips into Gemini tonight, prompting you to face emotions previously stifled. Don’t fight the unexpected urge for openness, and don’t try to go it alone. A listening ear will find you, perhaps from an unexpected source.

Already took care of them,” Archer says, the scratch of his charcoal over his easel never pausing.

I glance over at his roof in surprise. “You watered the Buzzes?”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you’d be up here tonight.”

“Really? Three-quarter moon in Gemini on a clear autumn night?” I glance up. “This is what I live for.”

“Yeah, but it’s also a Friday night, Randy. Typically, it’s a popular one for going into the city, seeing friends. Hooking up.”

“Hooking up?” I repeat in surprise. “Do you need me to give you a ride to the frat house?”

“You know what I mean. Dating. Sex.”

He waggles his eyebrows at that last one, but I ignore him.

“Saw the kid yesterday bounding up to your front door,” Archer says after a moment. “Seemed way too excited for someone who’s doing after-hours science.”

I smile. “She reminds me of me at that age. We’ve only had a couple sessions so far, but she’s impatient that she doesn’t know it all yet.”

“They don’t teach star stuff in school?”

“They do teach star stuff , but it’s just the basics: the Earth revolves around the sun, the names of the planets, our solar system is one of billions, yada yada. They don’t get to the really good stuff.”

“You ever think of teaching kids? Like Kylee’s age? Or was it always college students?”

I tilt my head, studying him. “You’re awfully chatty tonight.”

“Bored,” he says, and though his tone matches his claim, I must be getting to know the man better than I realized, because I don’t think it’s the whole truth. I don’t think Simon Archer is nearly as indifferent to the people around him as he pretends to be. I also get the sense that tonight he wants a distraction from his own thoughts.

“It was always college kids. I always imagined being a professor,” I say, deciding to give him that distraction. “Though I’m surprised by how much I’ve enjoyed tutoring Kylee. It’s refreshing to share knowledge with someone who’s interested in the actual subject matter, rather than her GPA. All she cares about is how cool the sky is.”

I tilt my head up and look at said coolness. “Which, in turn, helps remind me . When you’re in a big lecture hall, sometimes you forget the wonder of how big the universe is, how tiny we are. And how the more you learn, the more you realize you don’t know. The quest for understanding becomes like an addiction.”

I let out a little laugh when I realize I’m borderline babbling. “You were right that first night. I am noisy.”

“Huh. Guess I’m getting used to it,” he says, a little distracted, since as usual, most of his attention’s on his easel.

I sit up straight and put on my best authoritative professor expression. “I’ve decided it’s past time I get to peek at your canvas.”

“Is it, now?”

I nod. “It’s not like I haven’t seen your work. The stuff you sell.”

That gets his attention. He looks over, less than pleased. “When?”

“Relax. I don’t barge into your house the way you do mine. But there are a couple news articles about auctions of your pieces.”

He continues to gaze at me but says nothing.

“You’re quite good.” I set the watering can on the table and pull out one of the iron chairs to take a seat. I’ve brought some of the furniture up from the garden, since while alfresco evenings in the yard have ended, I like the idea of rooftop evenings being a year-round experience.

“Flatter all you want,” he grouses. “But you’re not getting a look at this easel. I told you before,” he says, flipping the piece of charcoal between his fingers. “What I do up here is just for me.”

“Do you prefer it?” I ask. “The charcoal over the paint?”

He apparently decides my noisiness annoys him after all, because instead of responding, he drops the charcoal into the little chipped dish he keeps on the stool and heads across his roof to exit back into his townhome.

I blink. It’s rude, even for him.

And I’m a little surprised at just how disappointed I feel to be alone on the roof. Not so long ago, I was irritated at having my solitude interrupted by Archer’s return from his travels. But somewhere along the line I guess I’ve come to enjoy these strange, late-night sort-of conversations with one of the more confounding humans I’ve ever encountered.

I settle into my chair and try to channel Miranda from a couple of months ago, who relished in the peaceful silence. Before I can find her, Archer’s rooftop door opens again, and he reappears.

I’m surprised when, instead of returning to his usual station behind his easel, he walks past it and steps over the small gap between our two rooftops with a long stride.

It’s a first. The space between our rooftops is less than a foot, but it’s been an important divide of sorts, and we’ve never bridged that gap up until now.

I’m trying to sort out how I feel about this when Archer unceremoniously sets a bottle and two small mason jars on the table. He pulls out the second chair beside mine and pours a splash from the bottle into each jar.

Lifting one of the jars, he raps it against the second, which he then pushes toward me. “Cheers, Randy.”

I lift the jar and take a sniff, recoiling slightly.

“What is this?”

“Michter’s.”

I blink.

“Rye.”

I blink again.

He shakes his head. “Whiskey.”

“I don’t drink whiskey.”

“You do tonight,” he says, settling back in the chair and taking a sip from his own glass.

I take the tiniest of sips, unsurprised to find that it burns a bit.

But I’m a little surprised to find that the second tiny sip is a bit better. And the third… almost pleasant.

“Pace yourself,” he says without looking my way. He’s slouched down in his chair a bit so he can tilt his head back. “These chairs suck.”

“They do,” I agree. “Especially for stargazing. Lillian said I’m welcome to replace anything, but I guess I haven’t really gotten around to it.”

He doesn’t reply, of course, but the silence isn’t unpleasant. Quite the opposite. I’m surprised when he’s the one who breaks it.

“You miss teaching,” Archer says, idly swaying the mason jar in his hand.

“Is there a question in there, or…”

Archer shrugs. “Don’t need to ask. It’s obvious from the way you were going on and on.”

But when he glances over at me, his gaze doesn’t match his exasperated tone. It’s piercing, seeing just a bit too much. I look down quickly at my drink.

“I do miss it,” I admit after a moment.

“But?”

I take a deep breath, startled to realize there is a but . “But I guess I thought I’d miss it more . Or rather… I thought I’d miss the rest of it more. People outside of academia don’t realize that teaching is just a small part of what we do. There’s all this other… crap. Everyone tries so hard to pretend that it’s only about the science, when really at least half your energy goes into keeping tabs on what everyone else is doing, and making sure you position yourself in a certain light…”

“That why you do all the TV spots and interviews? It lets you teach and skips all the snobby professor stuff?”

“That’s…” Huh . “Very astute. And yeah, I guess, but it was at my peril.”

“How so?”

I lift a shoulder and sip the whiskey. “My attention from the ‘nonsnobby’ stuff is why I was denied tenure.”

“Is it?”

I pivot to glare at him. “Yes. Why, you think there was another reason?”

“No.” He holds my gaze. “I think you think there’s another reason.”

I suck in a little breath then, because until this moment, I hadn’t realized that he’s right. And that there’s been a sneaky thought lurking ever since Dr. Kowalski broke the news to me back in April.

I exhale. “What if… what if they thought my heart wasn’t in it?”

He continues to hold my gaze. “Was it?”

“Yes,” I reply automatically. “I come from a long line of respected, tenured professors. This has always been what I wanted.”

He pushes his tongue into the inside of his cheek before taking a sip of his drink. “So. What happens next? You do this horoscope thing for a year. Give yourself a break from campus life, from being a scientist, and then you just… go back? To a life you didn’t really like?”

“I never said I didn’t like it.”

He lifts an eyebrow. Didn’t you?

“Let’s talk about something else.” My voice is noticeably prim and testy.

“Sure. How about Dreamy McDaddy?”

“Pardon?”

“The kid’s dad? The guy you can’t put a straight sentence together around? He’s your knight in shining armor, right?”

“Christian,” I say, and it does come out a bit dreamy, like a tween girl with her first crush.

“Oh jeez,” he mutters.

“Actually…” I frown. “I haven’t really seen Christian. He hasn’t gotten out of the car when he’s dropped Kylee off.”

“You’re disappointed.”

“And you’re doing it again,” I say, exasperated. “That annoying question-that’s-not-a-question thing. Okay, no more talking about my career or my love life.”

“What love life?” he asks, though there’s no bite to it.

“Ouch,” I say, though there’s no pain behind it.

He smiles and slouches down a bit more in his chair so he can look upward. “Teach me something.”

“Sorry?”

He extends his glass toward the sky. “About the sky.”

“Um, that’s a huge topic.”

“Fine. Tell me how you feel about the moon.”

“I don’t feel anything about the moon,” I say automatically.

He sighs. “Randy. Okay, then. Tell me something empirical about the moon.”

“That’s another huge topic.”

He looks at me, exasperated. “Are you this difficult to converse with on dates?”

“This isn’t a date.”

“Definitely not.”

“But yes,” I admit. “I would theorize I am this difficult on dates.”

“You’d theorize ?”

“Well, it’s not as though I’ve had many recent data points on that matter.”

“Have you tried?” he asks.

“To what, gather data points?”

“ Date , Randy,” Archer replies with no small amount of exasperation. “You know. Put yourself out there?”

I sigh. “Let’s just… go back to the moon.”

He looks back toward the sky. “Fine by me.”

I take another sip of the whiskey, realizing I’m rather enjoying the beverage. “You want me to talk about it as a lifelong astronomer or as a reluctantly budding astrologer?”

“Surprise me.”

“Well. The astronomer in me would explain that the moon is in the final stage of its lunar cycle. It’s 270 degrees away from the sun tonight. We see half of it during this phase, always the right side, which is the side facing the sun. Results in a neap tide.”

“A what?”

I smile, a little surprised how nice it feels to dust off this knowledge and share it. I don’t teach it in my classes. “It’s when there is the least amount of difference between high tide and low tide.”

Archer doesn’t reply, but somehow I know that he’s not only listening, but listening intently.

“Now, as far as what that supposedly means for us humans, per astrology?” I continue, more reluctantly now since this topic is uncharted water for me. “The third-quarter moon is purportedly a time when we’re to… reflect. Or something like that.”

“Let go,” Archer says, cupping his glass in both hands.

“Let go?” I repeat.

He shifts in the uncomfortable chair. “Last quarter of the lunar cycle. It’s about reflection, yes, but also release. Letting go of something that’s no longer working, even if it’s just a mindset.”

I stare at him. “Why, Simon Archer. You have layers .”

He glances over with a warning look, and I smile, but don’t tease him further.

“You ever keep a journal, Randy?” he asks after a few minutes of silence.

“Not until recently,” I say, surprised by the question. “I’ve been tracking all the horoscope stuff, though I try to be more academic about it than, you know… dear diary . Why?”

He jerks his chin in the direction of his easel on his roof. “These moonlight sketches. They’re… you know.”

“They’re your journal,” I say, understanding.

“I guess. Just with images instead of words.”

“Explains why you won’t let me see them,” I muse, realization dawning. “I understand.”

He makes a grunting noise that might be a thank-you.

“Do you prefer it?” I ask, shifting my weight to the side of my hip so I can study him. “The drawings up here, versus the painted pieces you sell?”

He sips his drink, seeming to let the whiskey roll over his tongue before he swallows. “Maybe. But nobody wants to buy charcoal drawings done in the moonlight.”

“But the other painted stuff. That sells well?”

“Acrylics,” he says. “I paint mainly with acrylics, and… yeah. I do okay.”

“Your pieces are very beautiful,” I say. “Even seeing them online rather than the real thing, they’re quite… vivid.”

He lifts a shoulder and I shift my weight again to look upward, since I sense Archer’s nearing the end of his sharing, if I can even call it that. It still feels like progress, though to what, I have no idea.

After a while, I start to feel sleepy and contented, though the hard chair puts a serious damper on the latter, until finally I stand, ready to retire for the night.

“Thanks for this,” I say, lifting my empty glass.

He nods.

I pick up the watering can and hold it to my chest. And then because the whiskey has loosened my mind and my tongue just a bit, I look down at Archer.

“My horoscope predicted this, you know.”

“Rye whiskey in a mason jar?”

I laugh a little. “No. An unexpected connection. I must say, I didn’t anticipate it would be with you.”

The corner of his mouth moves. “Wishing it were with the kid’s dad?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “Though this wasn’t half bad. Why, were you wishing I was… what’s the publicist’s name?”

“Agent. She’s an agent.”

“Aha! So there is someone.”

He sighs. “There’s a woman with whom I’ve had an understanding.”

I stare at him. “Could you please be more vague?”

Unsurprisingly, he remains stubbornly silent.

“Okay, well.” I give his shoulder a friendly pat as I pass. “I guess we’ll count that as conversational progress.”

“No,” he says a little tersely, just as I’m about to open the door to go back inside.

“No, what?” I ask.

“No. I wasn’t wishing you were her.”

I smile as I head down the stairs. As far as Simon Archer goes, that was rather high praise.