The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
“Go on, guess. Guess, guess, guess.” I poked her arm with each command.
It really was sort of nice seeing her again.
“I don’t know. Inspector Lestrade?”
“No.”
“Auguste Dupin?”
“Wrong again. That name sounds familiar. I’m almost sure I should know
who Auguste Dupin is.”
“You should, but now will you please just tell me?”
“You always make me feel like I pay too little attention, you know? It’s
kind of charming in a masochistic way.”
She shook her head and looked pointedly away, her face so serious she
was smiling by implication. “Fine, I don’t even care.”
“Joe Jadid. The big guy’s nephew.”
She laughed with a hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe it. Or wait, yes,
I can. He’s a fascist anyway. It makes total sense.”
“He is not a fascist.”
“Yes, he is, and so are you. Fascist.” She stuck her tongue out at me.
I shrugged and turned my palms up. Arguments with Mia, even if they
started at a level this childish, had a way of accelerating quickly and unpredictably.
One minute we’d be arguing about whether to have dinner before or
after the movie, the next she’d be blaming me for the rising prison population.
Better to capitulate overtly and resist silently. “So how’s the thesis coming?”
I asked.
“Great. Slowly but great. My entire life for the next five months is in that
room up there. I’m not even going home for winter vacation.”
“What happens after that?”
“After winter vacation?”
“No, after the thesis is over. The dreaded question: What happens After?”
“After that we’ll see. I’ve applied for the fancy England scholarships, and
if I get those, I’ll be over there. Otherwise law school.”
“And from there to world dominance?”
“And from there to world dominance. I’m going to need a minister of
propaganda, you know. Interested?”
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