But logic couldn’t quell the excitement simmering in his stomach.
Ethan
Yes. I’m reading his 2019 collection.
Edging his feet out from under Bunsen’s jowls, he retrieved Chiang’s book, thumbing past its minimalist black cover while another typing notification popped onto his screen.
Forster
That collection has my favorite of his stories. Where are you in the lineup?
He checked his bookmark.
Ethan
I just finished What’s Expected of Us.
Forster
The one with the Predictor device?
Ethan
Yes. Where humanity learns that free will is a myth.
Forster
That was bleak. I liked The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling much better.
Pages flicked under his fingers. He skipped past “The Lifecycle of Software Objects” and “Dacey’s Patent Automatic Nanny,” and another message from the writer appeared as he repositioned his bookmark to stake out the story. He usually read articles and book series in order, building sequential timelines of logic for a reveal of the authors’ data conclusions or puzzle box answers. There was a neatness to understanding and then executing one complete task before moving ahead to the next.
But tonight?
Forster
Let me know how you like it.
Erin
Let me know how you like it.
Propped against her headboard, pillows squashed behind her back, her bare feet tucked under the blankets—even in June, California’s heat dissipated after sunset when Karl the San Francisco fog drifted down the Peninsula—and withGalactica Magazinespread across her lap, Ted Chiang’s dog-eared short story collection flopped open to “The Truth of Fact, the Truth of Feeling,” Erin watched for Bannister’s response. But as the seconds passed without a notification from the artist on her screen, the nervous jigging of her legs brought her knees up to her chest.
She hadn’t politely asked Bannister if they’d share their thoughts with her.
She’d demanded it.
She’d demanded that the artist continue a late-night conversation with a stranger—demanded it of a person whose work spoke to her with wondrous ferocity. They were likely someone who had hundreds of other rapt fans eager for their notice, as well, because who could look at their work and not feel that world-tilting compulsion toward awe?
On a Friday, too.
Maybe Bannister was at a gallery show tonight. Somewhere with flashing cameras, chilled champagne, and canapes. An after-hours event for connoisseurs at Soho Mod Art? Adrian had taken her during a visit to Manhattan. He’d talked about solar cooling for the gallery’s skylights with the proprietor while she’d wandered along the walls, staring for too long at a white canvas and trying to determine whether it was patching a hole in the structural plaster, or whether it was supposed to be conceptual art in its own right. She had no eye for modern design…
Whether Bannister was at a gallery show or working in a studio, however, she was probably an interruption to their night. Biting her lip, she reached for her phone to turn it over, hiding the screen from her temptation to watch it for the scroll of a typing ellipsis, and—
Ping.
Bannister
