Just another day in the university library. I have on my desk an open, yellowed manuscript from our Reserve area, a text from the time of Shakespeare. I am carefully analyzing the way the text differs from current versions from the 20th Century. Bibliography is my lowest mark this semester, but it is nevertheless my favourite course.

When I near completion of my task, my iPhone lights up and a text message appears. For once it is not from a fellow student asking for study notes or from a prof adding new work to my already full schedule. It is from a complete stranger.

[So guess the date we made was just a joke to you. I waited four hours in the pub thinking that maybe we had miscommunicated. Thanks to you, MIA Maria, I drank way too much and ended up spending all my grocery money on booze, went home drunk, and now am suffering a sodding hangover from Hell. Thank you very little!]

I knew one thing for certain. I had no dates, ever. Who has time for that silliness? This could not be for me. He must have drunk dialled and left this text, not realizing he had sent it to the wrong person. Maybe this Maria had just given him a made-up number, after he insisted that they meet up. (We’ve all done that when some drunk dude won’t leave us alone. At least I used to, when I was still naive enough to think that one could party and also maintain a First-class average.) Likely, this was a situation among first year students.

I felt helpless to fight the urge to respond. His name, from my caller ID was Marlow. How could I resist that bait, given the time period I was working in?

My time was up with the manuscript so I returned it to the front desk and retrieved my student card. Down the stairs to the stacks I walked like a zombie, still ruminating about what I would send back to ‘Marlow.’ The huge shelves of dusty tomes threatened to tip over—the air smelled of sweat and desperation. Not enough light to do any real work down here. It was the perfect place to plan something deceitful.

I settled into a decrepit desk in a back corner. On the floor were the remains of blunts, long since abandoned, with the associated ashes streaked on the granite floor. The surface of the desk was riddled with carvings, probably scribbled by those at a loss as to how to pass exams that they were not a all prepared for.

‘Amy and Matt FOREVER’

‘Higher education is a government conspiracy’

‘I before E except if E is your thing’

‘Sociology sucks balls”

‘Your tax dollars not at work’

But then, written sideways in black, permanent marker was, ‘For a good time, call Maria 442-534-4041’. That was MY number! What? Must have been some Frosh’s idea of a joke, since I am a notoriously picky teaching assistant, far from beloved. I am sure that this was the source of Marlow’s mistaken message, but who had started it all? In good conscience I couldn’t write a lie back in response to the text. It would just add to the poor guy’s confusion, and he was already the butt of someone else’s cruel joke.

I search through my overstuffed backpack for my flip-chart marker. I carefully cover the desk message until it is unreadable. My stomach churns and gurgles, reminding me to eat before the light-headedness arrived.

A few blocks away at the student cafe, I grab a slice of gooey cheese pizza to take home. My stand-by cheap dinner and antidote for stress or melancholy. My steps on the wet pavement feel extra heavy, as I trudged along. The sky sighed discontentedly, with dark forms swirling, menacing. Felt as if a storm was on its way.

After I eat and have a glass of wine, I send this text to Marlow.

[I don’t remember making any plans with you. Sounds like you had an awful night! I am a teaching assistant doing my MA. My past students may have been circulating my cell number as a fiendish prank. I found my number etched into a desk in the university library’s stacks today, accompanied by the name, ‘Maria.’ Apparently, someone thought it hilarious to say that I might offer a ‘good time.’ But anyone who knows me knows that is truly not possible. Lol.

Sorry for the confusion. It seems we have both been had.

Best,

Dianna J. ]

You see, I couldn’t bring myself to delude this poor kid further by pretending to be his hot-to-trot Maria. I wasn’t known as a sweetheart, but I was not cruel either. If students hate me, set me up for these kind of shenanigans, it just showed that they were not mature enough to be part of this university. Too bad that this Marlow, whomever he is, got entangled with the hoax. With these thoughts, I put the lid on the day and turn out the light, grateful for having solved the mystery.

Or, so I thought.

* * *

The next morning I was surprised to find a new text on my phone. As I ate my scrambled eggs, I read it. I almost started to choke.

[Hello, Dianna,

I had not meant for that text to be sent. I started using an old phone of my Dad’s that I had used for a while in my first year. The message I had written never got sent because I got a new phone. Until this week, the old one was not in use. My new phone got flung out of the bus window by a recent girlfriend who suffered from chronic jealousy. Hence no girlfriend, now, and also, back to the ancient phone.

The message in the stacks was about a girl named Maria who was the Venus of our first-year class. Turned out she became ill mid-year, hence she missed her date with me, and probably broke many hearts by simply disappearing. Later we found out she had passed during Holiday Break from pneumonia, of all things. Too many late nights, or too many contacts. Anyway, just wanted you to know that your students weren’t pranking you.

Also, I want you to know that I for one think you are both brilliant as well as beautiful. I am so embarrassed to have had you involved in this awkward situation. I know you better than you might realize as I work at Reserve Library Desk and so often see how dedicated you are toward your work. So dedicated, in fact, that I doubt you even know I am there. But I know you, after seeing your ID card on so many occasions.

I am also a Grad student, doing my MA in Library Science. My work in the Reserve area is what they gave me to do because there are no TA-ships in my department. I have been put into a position where I must watch you, not for pleasure though I always find that pleasurable, but because it is my job. I like my job, Dianna.

Since you have never spoken to me in all these months, I guess I would like to introduce myself to you. Marlow was the name of our family cat. My name is Paul Carson. I hope that you speak to me when you are next in the Reserve area. Oddly, this misunderstanding has created the chance to meet you, something I have wanted but was afraid to do for so long.

Regards,

Paul AKA ‘Marlow’]