Think I Want to Twist the Plot This Time

Part 2

"As am I," he says. "But you're not from around here."

Is it the outfit? Her hair being longer than most other women she's seen tonight? Time to bring out the half-truths, so soon. "No, just... visiting from Los Angeles."

"Los Angeles," he repeats, nodding slowly. "You're an actress, I gather?"

Barbie flushes; that's how he's clocked her? Maybe all the pink isn't doing her any favors, even if she feels great in it. "I've... dabbled," she answers truthfully, remembering all her movie premieres in Barbie Land, all the fun premises she's filmed based on fairy tales. "But nothing I think you've ever seen. And I don't act much anymore." Though maybe she's putting on an act right now, trying to keep her story straight.

And maybe she should introduce herself, so she's not just some woman in pink to him and he's not just a man to her. She holds out her manicured hand, smiling again. "I'm Barbara Handler. But my friends call me 'Barbie.'"

He reaches over to shake her hand; his palm feels comfortably warm in hers and his handshake isn't too firm. Those long fingers, curled around her hand like she imagined. "Robert Oppenheimer."

The name clicks something familiar in her head, but Barbie can't seem to place it right now. It'll come to her later, she's sure.

"My students occasionally call me 'Oppie.'" It's the first instance of a smile she's seen formed on his face, his mouth just barely curling at the corners. His hand falls from hers back to the bar, then he takes another drag.

"'Oppie,'" she repeats, her smile only growing larger. She likes the way it sounds when she says it—and with the way he's still holding the tiniest of smiles, she thinks he likes it, too. "So... you're a teacher."

"Professor," he corrects, dousing the end of his cigarette on the ashtray. "Nearby at Berkeley."

"My sister school!" Barbie exclaims, starting to get a better feel for the conversation now. "I'm taking some classes at UCLA."

"Bruin, huh?" He raises a dark brow, seemingly impressed. "What's your field of study?"

"A little bit of everything," she replies. "Anthropology, sociology..." Women's studies, but she doubts that's a subject that even exists in this time period. "I find humans endlessly fascinating." Barbie leans forward onto the bar, finding her comfort zone.

"I'm sure you have quite a few opinions about the war, then," Oppenheimer surmises, shifting a bit on his stool to face her better. He crosses his legs when he sits. Barbie doesn't know many men who do that naturally.

The war. The war Barbie only knows through hindsight, but everyone here is living through it. She has to choose her words carefully. "I think... people really start to show their colors during desperate times." She remembers the sign at the door, remembers Gloria mentioning people rounded up like cattle for slaughter. "I can't believe someone would commit such atrocities against a whole group of people based on their beliefs, their looks..."

"My people," Oppenheimer interjects, taking another sip of his drink.

"Your..." Her hand instinctively reaches out to pat his arm gently, but she drops it. Right, not every person is okay with touching, much less right after meeting. "Oh, I'm... so sorry."

If Oppenheimer is perturbed or off-put by the gesture, he doesn't show it. "Would you mind if I pose a hypothetical question?" he asks instead, his eyes boring into hers. Barbie has no idea if she's ever seen eyes this blue from someone in the real world—they make her want to be nothing but honest.

"No—ask away." She taps her nails absently on the wood, as if she never meant to touch his arm in the first place. The band announce they're going to take a break, and the sound of quiet conversation and glasses clinking fill the air instead of the music.