there are worst things to have to say to someone at the bar when, over the jukebox, booming out some song that some guy was dared by his friends to play, someone you are meeting for the first time asks loudly, "what do you do for a living?"
i mean, you could admit that you work in retail, selling produce or pencils to mass consumers, or that you move boxes or deliver furniture 40 hours a week to keep your lights on and your cell phone company satisfied. yes, there are less glamorous options than leaning over, beer bottle tipping slightly in hand, and saying into your new acquaintance's ear, "i am a paleoclimatologist."
but Bill never enjoyed telling people his line of work. it was frustrating. once he got them pronouncing it correctly, then there was the awkward moment when the person he was speaking with had to decide between pretending they are familiar with the term or honestly proclaiming, "what the hell is that?" regardless of what they chose, it always ended the same way-awkwardly. there is no conversation killer quite like admitting you are a scientist in an obscure field.
so Bill had taken to dumbing down his profession.
"i work with weather stuff."
"im a scientist."
"i do research."
"i read boring books."
and then, perhaps he could steer them onto another subject. he was, after all, well versed in these types of scenarios, due to excessive practice. bars were, after all, where he spent the few hours he had to himself between midnight and 3am, when he had returned home from the lab or the library or the classroom and when he had finished his chores at home, making dinner and putting Mother to bed.

there were, of course, the long moments and minutes and hours in between, when he listened to her talk about her uneventful day and had to recount his own to her eager ears. he used to listen with rapt attention, his body language and conversation engaging. in those moments, he was the model of his mother in the days when her hair was long and full and she brushed though it quickly and carelessly. he was proud of her hair, like a movie star's hair, her bangs falling over her left eye constantly. he watched her push it back every few minutes as she made him an after-school snack and listened intently to his stories about Mrs. Harth and his crayons and the big, heavy clouds he drew across his paper during recess. they were only slightly gray, and the rest he left white as the paper; he said because they were only thinking about raining at the time that he drew them. he had learned to listen from the way he saw her eyes and brow and hands and back and long neck, often hidden by her brown hair left down, listened when he spoke. she asked questions-she always knew the right question-and he loved to answer them. he had learned to ask questions from her too-about the weather, about hot and cold, about seasons and their city and the sky today, tomorrow and yesterday and then about many yesterdays ago.

but he was losing these skills even as she needed him to do them well. the truth was, it was painful to listen, to watch those same dark eyes when he had to see the wrinkled hands with large, purple veins, and bent back. he already knew the answer to the questions he would ask and so he held off until he could change the answer.

"you look so tired. must've been a long day."
why was she talking to him? he had seen her walk through the door, stepping nonchalantly through peanut shells and right up to the bar. he had noticed her long dark hair but failed to notice moments later, when she moved to a stool nearby.
"uh, not bad i guess. just thinking." she laughed.
"so thinking makes you tired, then."
"if i think too much."
"well then, i hope you dont make a career out of it." she shoved a handful of peanuts, that she had been cracking, into her mouth and washed them down with a Blue Moon. "is it?"
"is it what?"
"your career?" Bill turned his bottle sideways and stared at the label a moment, contemplating his response.
"i do some research on the weather."
"thats awfully vague." she asked for it.
"i'm actually a paleoclimatologist that works with Brown's Graduate School." she pondered over another handful of salty protein.
"paleoclimatologist." she moved it around her mouth like a first sip of wine, letting it touch each part of her tongue to investigate it. "paleo...old stuff. climate...weather. ologist...specialist." this was certainly a new response.
"yes, im an old weather specialist." im going to use that from now on. "and do you deal with language much? or a detective, maybe."
"both, actually."
"well, then, arent we both impressive?" he had finished his beer, and at the usual 3am mark, but he wasnt quite ready to go yet. to the bartender's surprise, he ordered another. "do you like being a language detective?"
"oh, im not a language detective. i just work with both." he wasnt in practice to deal with her coy answers, and the scientist in him just wanted real facts. the scientist in him made it impossible to respond and he turned back to his drink. "i was supposed to meet someone here, but i guess he isnt going to show."
"oh, sorry about that."
"yeah, well, im not really. it makes it easier actually. now i have some ammunition to stave him off at work tomorrow." she finished the last of her beer and slapped some money on the counter. "got to get going, work starts at 5am!"
"not much time left to sleep, huh?"
"oh, i dont need to. nice talking to you-weatherman."
"yeah," he tipped his bottle towards her, startled, and turned slightly on his stool, as if pulled towards the door by her movement, "you too..." and she was gone with a wink, pushing a strand of frizzy hair from her face.

Bill wasnt much of a people person. he simply endured night classes full of bored students for the extra money. he didnt mind other scientists, though, especially when they were as passionate about the same field. he was startled